


no hard feelings

by Appleface



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Miscommunication, Wedding, héloïse's sister is alive and not a super minor character!! isn't that wild, i'm going heavy with the tropes here, i'm sure i'll figure it out, i've only been to one wedding so, in milan!!!, lots of discussion about books!!!, most of my wedding knowledge extends to mamma mia and that's it, no we don't, remember when i said i wouldn't be writing any more fics, there's only one bed folks, we love to see it, who knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26002957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appleface/pseuds/Appleface
Summary: Héloïse's sister is getting married. All her relatives will be on her back if she shows up single.So who does she take and pretend to be dating? Her book-loving, intelligent, motorcycle-riding coworker, Marianne.Which is all well and good.Except that the two of them can't stand each other.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 243
Kudos: 475





	1. marriage is an economic proposition

Héloïse is eating a punnet of grapes in the kitchen when Sophie walks in, and starts, hand flying to her throat.

“ _Putain,_ Héloïse,” she sighs, dropping the hand to her side. Her long hair is tied into two plaits, and there is Sudocrem dolloped onto the spots on her chin. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Héloïse defends herself, staring absent-mindedly at the grape between her fingers.

“What are you doing up? You don’t work until ten,” Sophie strides across the kitchen tiles towards the pantry.

Héloïse slices a grape in two with her teeth and waits until she’s swallowed it to respond, somewhat reluctantly. “I had a nightmare.”

“Another one?”

“Don’t sound so exasperated. If I could choose to not have them, then I would.”

Sophie doesn’t say anything to that. It’s only when she’s got her bowl of granola that she sits across from Héloïse at the table and delivers her a somewhat stern but caring look. Eyes round, lips pursed. “What happened in this one?”

“I can barely remember now. It was just a lot of loud noises and colours,” Héloïse is picking the skin off of a grape. “Suzie said that I ruined everything. I didn’t even know what I’d done so I got mad, refused to apologise. And then everybody in the house disappeared and I was left in the rubble of a party.”

She tries to make it sound nonchalant and not as upsetting as she found it this morning. But when Héloïse looks up, Sophie is twirling the spoon in her fingers, bottom lip bitten.

“It’s not going to be like that, you know,” Sophie says eventually.

“I know,” says Héloïse, even though she doesn’t. Neither of them do.

“Seriously. Nobody will be paying so much attention to you. You’re not the bride.”

“Thank God.”

Sophie hums in amusement and swallows a spoonful of granola. “You should go back to sleep. You look exhausted.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“Well, you do!”

Héloïse shakes her head and pops another grape into her mouth. She stands, the legs of her chair scraping against the tiles. “I’m just going to have a shower and head off. The grapes helped.”

“You’ve nearly eaten the whole punnet,” Sophie complains, staring incredulously at the plastic container in front of Héloïse.

“I’ll buy more later,” Héloïse says in a form of apology. She puts the near-empty punnet into the fridge and heads off towards the bathroom. Before she can go in, Sophie calls again behind her:

“I’ll be there too, you know,” she says. Héloïse turns to look, and sees Sophie’s doe eyes peering up at her in earnest. “Just because you don’t have a plus-one doesn’t mean you’ll be alone.”

Héloïse smiles flatly. “You’re bringing Hugo, though.”

“We’ll hang out with you,” Sophie promises.

“I don’t want to be a third-wheel.”

“You won’t be. We can just be a three-wheel bike. I’m sure those exist, somewhere.”

Props to Sophie: she does not give in. Héloïse really needs this shower to wake her up, so she concedes with a little nod, and shuts the door to the bathroom.

When she’s waiting for the hot water to come on, Héloïse plucks up the courage and sends a text.

H hi. weird question but im wondering if you’d come with me to this thing?  
‘this thing’ being a wedding.  
no pressure.

Héloïse says ‘no pressure’ but the truth is that there is a great deal of pressure. She’s not sure if it would be great to lump said pressure onto a girl she hasn’t spoken to in a month since their third (somewhat disastrous) date. But at this rate, she’s running out of options.

No pressure, though.

\--

It’s a small bookshop, at least compared to some of the others Héloïse has been to. The pros are that it’s not overwhelming with choice, and there’s no way to get lost. The cons are that there’s also no way to avoid certain co-workers.

When Héloïse marches in, tearing off her jacket as she goes, Arnaud calls from the register: “She’s not here yet.”

Héloïse stops rushing. She glances at Arnaud, from where he is opening and shutting drawers beneath the counter. “And why should I care?”

“Because every time you come in for this shift, you ask me if she’s here yet,” Arnaud explains in a flat tone. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning.”

Héloïse drops her jacket and bag in the otherwise empty staff room. A small smile twinges on her face. She got here first.

When she leaves the staff room to ask Arnaud if she needs to make any orders, Héloïse barges right into somebody; specifically, she knocks into the motorcycle helmet the person is wearing.

Héloïse makes an involuntary grunt, but from behind the helmet emerges a shrill yell. The kind Héloïse instantly recognises, despite her currently cradling her bruised forehead.

“Look where the fuck you’re going!” curses Marianne, revealing her unharmed face as she pulls the black helmet off. She blinks rapidly, eyebrows lowered in a frown.

“Don’t complain, you didn’t get bashed in the face,” retorts Héloïse, hissing in through her teeth. She straightens up and meets Marianne’s sharp stare for only a second before strutting past her. “And if your head wasn’t so big then there would be no problem.”

“It was the helmet and you know it,” Marianne spits, though Héloïse is walking very determinedly away.

“Motorbikes are bad for the environment.”

“Like you care about the environment.”

When Héloïse dares to look over her shoulder, Marianne has disappeared into the staff room. Héloïse turns back around to catch Arnaud, staring past her with a frown.

“She’s angry this morning,” he muses, just as Héloïse walks past him to the computer.

“What do you mean? She’s like that all the time.”

“No, only when she talks to you for too long,” Arnaud turns back to watch the door, tapping a tune away on the desk.

Héloïse mindlessly enters the password. “Whatever.”

There’s a silence where she realises Arnaud is now frowning at her. “What?” she asks, sharp-tongued.

“You usually keep your cool a little longer too.”

“Way to tell a woman to calm down, Arnaud.”

“No, that’s not...” he swallows his exasperation. “I just mean, are you okay? You’ve been stressed recently, I can tell.”

Héloïse stares at the letter ‘K’ on the keyboard, which is broken because of a crumb stuck underneath it that nobody has managed to extract. She notices that she is clenching her jaw, and lets it fall for just a moment. She rolls her shoulders. “I’m fine. _C’est la vie,_ you know?”

Arnaud remains quiet for a moment. Héloïse stares blankly at the computer screen, and can’t remember why she turned it on in the first place.

“Well,” Arnaud pipes up. “At least you have those few days off, soon. You can rest for a bit.”

Héloïse clenches her jaw again, teeth gritted inside her mouth. She tries to keep the strain from her tone. “I’m going to a wedding. So it’s not really a break.”

“Oh, a wedding!” Arnaud’s smile shines through his voice. “That’s exciting. I love weddings.”

“Who loves weddings?” comes a tone of disgust. Héloïse looks up to see Marianne wandering through the bookshelves, her stare narrowed and dark. She rubs at the back of her pale neck. She is not looking at Héloïse, instead at Arnaud.

“You don’t like weddings?” Arnaud sounds incredulous. “Not a hopeless romantic, then.”

“I like romance, I just don’t think marriage is always about love.”

Héloïse stares dead-fast at the computer screen, but can’t ignore how thoroughly she agrees with Marianne on this. She buries this notion, though. It’s an anomaly. She and Marianne never agree.

“Are you going to start quoting Little Women?” Héloïse says instead, dryly and without giving any hint as to how she feels about marriage.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Marianne is quick to respond. “Are you going to actually use the computer or can I?”

Héloïse grits her teeth, but must admit to herself that she can’t remember why she wanted to use it in the first place. So, wordless, she stands and moves away from the desk. As she walks towards the graphic novel section, Héloïse hears Marianne quote, with total smugness: _“Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow.”_

Héloïse refuses to turn and look at her. She can already picture the self-satisfaction Marianne wears like a badge whenever she gets the last word. Héloïse is better than that. She marches on.

\--

Some customers arrive in not long after. Héloïse knows a few of them as regulars, though even fewer by name. There’s Nina, a woman even taller than some of the bookshelves with an ever-increasing appetite for obscure biographies. An old man who is always buying books for his grandchildren. A shy teenage girl, who Héloïse notices always tap twice on the spines of books she wants to come back and buy. Today, Héloïse has a conversation with a semi-regular visitor: Vincent, a middle-aged man who is very cheery and talkative and always carries his umbrella even on days where the sky shines clear and blue. Today, after spending some time in the shop, he approaches the register with a book in hand: _Conversations With Friends_ by Sally Rooney.

Héloïse curbs her dislike at the sight of it. “Oh, this one?” she says in what she hopes is an unbiased tone. “Ten euro, _s’il vous plait.”_

“Marianne recommended it to me,” Vincent chirps, handing over some coins.

When Vincent has left, Marianne emerges from the bookshelves.

“Really,” says Héloïse, palms flat on the desk.

Marianne meets her eyes. She wears a short-sleeved turtleneck. Isn’t it too hot for that sort of thing? Anyway, she looks stupid. Like Steve Jobs. “It’s a good book,” Marianne says breezily.

So she was listening. Just to argue her probably shit point. “A good book? The characters are unbearable. I can’t think of one person I cared about.”

Marianne’s eyes flash, but her mouth remains a flat line. She tangles her delicate hands together and approaches the register, unhurried and casual. “Do you have to like everybody you read about? Isn’t it more interesting to read about people who feel real and complicated…?”

“People can be complex and have good traits,” Héloïse looks away from Marianne, pretending to be interested in a book Arnaud had left open on the register. Very small font. “And the reader should be able to sympathise with the main character, at the very least. That main character, Frances. She was so childish and cold, and she hardly changed until the end, and even then I don’t know how much better she really got. All her decisions were unbearable. How was I supposed to care about her?”

“I sympathised with her.”

Héloïse stares at Marianne, unable to rein back her alarm.

Marianne rolls her eyes. She has approached the edge of the desk. “There’s a difference between sympathy and empathy, you know. I didn’t agree with any or most of what she did, but I could understand why she did it. And when I didn’t understand why she was doing certain things, I wanted to understand. I was interested. So I kept reading to find out.”

“But did we really find out anything? In the end, it feels like everything is going to start all over again.”

Marianne jerks her head back and knits her eyebrows, as though she’s been delivered a physical blow. This reaction only lasts a second before she is trying to regain her balance. All the while she won’t break eye contact. “You think that? But the characters have changed. They’re being honest, Frances is becoming a little more at peace with herself.”

Héloïse shrugs. She is picking at the dog-eared page of Arnaud’s book. “It seems like a cycle to me.”

Marianne’s eyebrows raise. She seems genuinely shocked. “You have no faith! And no sympathy either.”

Héloïse bristles. “I only have sympathy for people who deserve it.”

At that moment, a customer suddenly appears from around the poetry section with an awkward smile and three books. Héloïse unclenches her jaw and smiles, chatting to the person as she bags the books. When they’ve vanished out the door, Héloïse notes that Marianne is still lingering, though she has faced away from the register and is sorting through the ‘Humour’ section.

Still. Héloïse has more points to make. She turns towards Marianne, one hand still resting on the desk. “What about all the showing off?”

Marianne turns around. Her expression is furrowed but expectant.

Héloïse elaborates. “The author was obsessed with showing you how intelligent she was. There were whole pages dedicated to the characters rambling about philosophy or capitalism or otherwise.”

Marianne’s eyes bulge. “Are _you_ really calling Sally Rooney pretentious?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Héloïse decides to bat this away. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Marianne considers this argument for a moment. The stillness of her expression when she is thinking like this always annoys Héloïse. Then, Marianne’s eye contact flickers, and she places her hands on her hips. “Well, I never said the book was perfect. I just said that I liked it.”

Seems like a cop-out. Could that count as a win? She’ll take it. Héloïse stifles a smile and glances back at the desk.

But she has no time to gloat. Marianne pipes up again. “And anyway, you remember her name.”

Héloïse looks at her again. “What?”

“Frances, the main character,” there is some twitching in the corners of Marianne’s mouth. “She was memorable. That’s more than you can get from many stories.”

Before Héloïse can think to respond, Marianne is gone, walking quickly away through the shelves. And maybe just as well, because Héloïse can’t quite think of a good response to that argument.

There’s too much on her mind today for her to get the last word in.

\--

The bar is packed. Why did she agree to this? Héloïse hates cramped spaces. She hates work outings. She hates alcohol. Or at least, she hates alcohol the morning after she has drunk a lot of it. Right now it tastes fucking _great._

Arnaud and Mikael are having a great time, though. Lucie and Gulmira spoke to Héloïse for a little while, but it’s difficult to have a coherent conversation over the music and yelling.

Héloïse checks the message she sent to her old date this morning. It’s been read. No reply. Fair enough, though. Héloïse wouldn’t go to a wedding for anyone other than her sister. And maybe Sophie. But Sophie isn’t marrying Hugo. Not yet.

Héloïse has nearly convinced herself to go home when her phone buzzes. She grabs it, only to feel it buzz again in her hand. Héloïse realises in horror that it’s a phone call. When she sees the familiar: _Maman,_ appear on the screen, the tendrils of dread begin to swirl in her chest. Thoughtless, she answers it.

“Hello,” Héloïse says blankly, making no effort to raise her voice and not knowing if her maman can hear her over all the noise.

Unfortunately, she can hear just fine. “Where are you? I hear music.”

“A bar.”

“A _bar?”_

“Don’t sound so surprised. I do have a social life, you know.”

Héloïse’s maman is quiet for a moment. “When are you leaving? In time for the bachelorette party, I assume?”

“On Saturday.”

“Saturday,” repeats Héloïse’s maman. “And are you travelling alone?”

The hope in her tone crushes a tiny part of Héloïse. Héloïse stares at her drink, half-drained. “I’m going up with Sophie and her boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She sounds pained.

“You know I’m not, maman,” Héloïse trails a finger along the rim of her glass. “I’ve already asked everybody I can think of.”

“Surely not everybody.”

“I don’t know that many people.”

Héloïse‘s maman is quiet again. When she speaks, the strain is unhidden from her tone. “Just, please bring someone. If not to get everyone off your back, then to get them off mine.”

Héloïse shakes her head, just slightly, and tilts it back to the ceiling. “Why are they so concerned about me?” she stares straight ahead again. Before her, a man and woman flirt coyly. “Your other daughter is doing just wonderful in the romance department.”

“Don’t sound so jealous, Héloïse.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m fine on my own, really.”

Really. Really?

“Maybe,” even Héloïse’s maman sounds unsure. “But can you just bring a date? Please.”

Héloïse knows that she can’t. “I’ll think about it.”

They have a meandering goodbye. Héloïse hangs up eventually, and sits there, dejected and a little shivery. She hates phone calls.

As though she was called by the Gods of _‘making everything worse’_ , Marianne waltzes in just past where Héloïse is perched on the stool. She has a drink in hand, mostly empty, and reaches out to steady herself against the bar. Her hair has come slightly undone, a rogue strand falling flat past her face. She twists her head towards Héloïse and takes a moment to stare at her before blurting: “Family drama?”

Héloïse keeps her blank face, but inside she grits her teeth. Marianne is _always_ fucking eavesdropping. Even in loud bars. “No. None of your business.”

Marianne has managed to sit herself on a stool and place her drink on the bar. She pokes a finger in Héloïse’s general direction. “None of YOUR business.”

Héloïse blinks. “Are you drunk?”

Marianne snorts. “We’re at a bar. Of course I’m drunk.” She nods at Héloïse’s drink. “Aren’t you?”

“Not drunk enough.”

Marianne makes a noise of agreement. And she doesn’t move. She stays, sitting beside Héloïse. She must be really drunk. And Héloïse is too grouchy and tired to go elsewhere.

Marianne doesn’t waste much time. She finishes her drink and meets Héloïse’s eyes, unbidden. “So, what is it?”

Héloïse stares. “What is what?”

“The problem.”

Héloïse shrugs and hunches over her drink, staring into its murky depths. “There’s no problem. I don’t have problems.”

Marianne doesn’t move. “Everyone has problems.”

“What’s yours, then?”

Marianne sighs and twirls one long finger around in the air. “Okay, I’m unapproachable and pretentious. Now you.”

A lot to take in. Héloïse figures it’s easier to talk about her own situation rather than unpack what Marianne just said. “My sister’s getting married and I have to attend her wedding.”

Marianne nods. “And you’d rather die than go?”

Héloïse blinks, unnerved by her immediate understanding. What a strange day. “Yes. I haven’t seen a lot of my family in some time. They’ll give me shit for going there alone. All of my cousins and relatives my age are in relationships.”

Marianne picks up her empty glass and holds it close to her chest, as though she’s cradling it. “I’ve been single at my brother’s and several of my cousins and friend’s weddings. The pressure is ridiculous.”

All at once, an awful, drunken, and impractical idea comes to Héloïse. There is a passage of about two seconds between it occurring to her and it spilling out of her mouth: “Would you come with me?”

Marianne doesn’t clock it at first. “Would I what?”

“Be my plus one. To the wedding.”

When there’s no response, Héloïse takes a sip of her drink and further explains: “It’s for a few days. Our manager loves you, right? You can ask for that time off. You come with me and we pretend to be in a relationship. You get a holiday, I don’t get berated by my relatives. Wins all around.”

Marianne stares unabashedly. “Are you mad,” she says. Not a question.

Héloïse rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. Nothing’s gonna happen. I am _not_ a romantic."

“Really,” Marianne says, though there is absolutely no shock in her tone.

Héloïse glazes over this. “And anyway, that’s why I’m asking you. Because we _hate_ each other, clearly. So there’s, like,” she swipes through the air with one hand, nearly hitting Marianne on the nose. “No chance.”

Marianne’s lips are thin, her eyes dark. “But we’d have to pretend to be together.”

Héloïse considers this and shrugs. “Well, whatever. No-one’s gonna expect us to make out at the reception.”

Marianne stares.

Héloïse sighs, and tries one more half-arsed plea. “It won’t even be that long. You can leave early if you want. Even though the train to Milan is like a seven-hour journey…”

“Milan?” Marianne cuts across. When Héloïse looks at her, Marianne’s eyes have transformed into split-open stars. She is leaning just a fraction closer, her lips parted. The alcohol has darkened her cheeks.

Héloïse takes a moment. “ _Oui._ The wedding’s in Milan.”

Marianne closes her mouth. She leans back in her chair and brings the glass to her lips. Tilting her head back, she manages to pour one final drop onto her tongue. When she delicately sits her glass back on the bar, Marianne announces: “I’m coming.” And then adds, not looking at Héloïse: “With you.”

“Really?” Héloïse didn’t think that would work.

Marianne nods just barely, and then again with more certainty. “Yes. But I need to go home.”

She stands up from the stool, regains balance, and waves one pale hand in the air. “Get my number off Arnaud or something.”

Without looking at Héloïse, Marianne goes. Slipping away through the crowd.

After a moment of numbness, and not quite understanding what just happened, Héloïse pulls out her phone and delivers a text to her maman.

H date acquired.

She nearly laughs to herself. God, she’s going to regret this in the morning.


	2. choices were made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one :)

Sophie laughs and laughs when Héloïse tells her who she’s bringing to the wedding. So much so that she has to sit down while Héloïse stands, arms folded and lips pursed. Not at all amused.

“What,” Sophie just about manages after she’s finished wheezing, a hand splayed flat against her chest. “What were you _thinking.”_

“I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking,” Héloïse defends.

“You weren’t that drunk when you came home,” Sophie delicately wipes her eyes. “Uhh… oh my god.”

“Please shut up.”

A grin flashes on Sophie’s face, which she quickly smothers and transforms into a hardly-contained smile. She averts eye contact with Héloïse, staring at the wine stain on their tablecloth. “You tell me every day that you hate her.”

“I do hate her.”

Sophie delivers a rather pointed look that lasts all of half a second before she looks away again to avoid giggling.

“I _do,”_ Héloïse is instantly appalled. “You know I do! She is annoying and smug and pretentious with awful taste in literature, and she rides a motorcycle which is the most obnoxious mode of transport…”

“Yes, you remind me of these things every day,” Sophie’s voice is high-pitched and she is smiling wide at floor.

Héloïse chooses to ignore the point Sophie is trying to make. It’s so stupid and obviously wrong that she can’t be bothered to defend herself any further. Instead, Héloïse turns and makes her way towards the window, desperately needing air to clear her head. “It’s going to be a hellish few days. I think I’ve probably made it worse for myself.”

“Definitely more difficult,” agrees Sophie, “have you texted her yet? We’re going in three days so she should probably know the details.”

The window creaks as Héloïse pushes it open, and a cool breeze leaks in. “ _Je vais._ I will.”

“Héloïse.”

 _“Je vais!”_ she turns around, bracing herself against the windowsill. Sophie’s smile has been mostly flattened, replaced by raised eyebrows and a dipped chin. Héloïse inhales briefly through her nose. “I am not looking forward to this.”

A flicker of sympathy passes through Sophie’s eyes. After a moment, she adds: “Is it just me who knows that you’re not actually with Marianne?”

“Just you,” confirms Héloïse. Upon second thought, she quickly adds: “and don’t tell Hugo.”

Sophie’s mouth drops open into an ‘o’ shape. “Why not?”

“He’ll blab.”

“He will not.”

“I don’t know that. Do you?”

Sophie’s mouth closes. “No,” she admits. And then: “Why can’t you tell Suzie?”

Héloïse pulls her hands away from where they’ve been clutched around the window ledge. She picks at the broken nail on her forefinger. “She’s got enough on her mind.”

“You don’t think she’ll notice?”

Will she? Héloïse shrugs. “I hope she’ll be gracious enough not to bring up our lack of chemistry.”

Sophie nods. She stands, making her way to the bathroom. “I’m having a shower.”

“Okay.”

Before entering, Sophie turns around and points an accusatory finger at Héloïse. “Text her.”

Héloïse swallows a groan. _“Je vais,”_ she promises wearily. Sophie shuts the door.

\--

H hello.

Héloïse finally settles on the text and puts her phone down for thirty minutes. When she picks it back up, Marianne hasn’t responded. Okay. Whatever. Héloïse tiptoes around the phone for another forty minutes, wherein she opens and closes the fridge, puts a hoodie on, stares at a blank word document, drinks two glasses of water, takes the hoodie off and tries not to chew on her fingernails. When her phone buzzes she lets out an audible sigh of relief and crosses the room to pick it up. God, _everything_ about Marianne stresses her out. She can’t even reply to texts properly.

M Hi

Okay, so she’s a capital letter sort of texter. Héloïse stares a few seconds longer, contemplating whether or not to leave her on read for a bit before deciding against it.

H hi.

Shit, she already said that.

H wait.  
how did you know this was me?  
do you know this is me  
it’s héloïse

M Yes I figured

H why

Marianne is typing.

M Full stop at the end of ‘hello’

H oh.

Okay.

H well anyway whatever  
i have to tell u info about the wedding i guess

M Okay

H so it’s like a five day stay up in my family’s holiday home in milan  
we leave on sunday

M This Sunday?

H oui  
is that okay

M Yea that’s fine

Way to nearly incite panic, Marianne. God, she’s so annoying.

H i’m taking the train up from gare de lyon with my cousin sophie and her bf  
we’re meeting there on sunday at 5 a.m.  
u should probably come with us  
it’d look weird if we went separately  
the journey is like seven hours tho i think i mentioned that

M Can’t I just motorbike over there

H no it’s in milan

M Yea I was joking

H oh.

M So will I pay you back for the ticket when I meet you there

H oh no don’t do that  
it’s fine i already bought it

Marianne is typing.

M Yea but I can pay you back

H no marianne really it’s fine  
i’m already making you come with me you don’t have to pay

M You’re not making me  
You convinced me

It’s true. So why does she feel guilty?

Héloïse tries another angle.

H if my family finds out that you paid then they’ll never let me live it down.

M Just lie  
That’s what we’re already doing

H marianne  
i’m paying  
that’s final.

Marianne is typing.

And typing.

And then she stops. Héloïse waits to no avail.

And waits.

Ten minutes pass.

H are you really leaving me on read.

Marianne doesn’t even see this one.

When Sophie comes home in the evening she makes herself dinner and listens patiently as Héloïse rants about Marianne leaving her on read rather than giving in to their argument. Sophie keeps a slight smile on her face all the while.

\--

They don’t have another shift together for the rest of this week. Marianne never responds to Héloïse’s text and Héloïse certainly isn’t keen to text her again. But she figures, while sat beside her packed suitcase on Saturday night, that she should probably make sure that Marianne hasn’t changed her mind about the whole thing.

H are you still good to meet tomorrow morning

This time, the response comes quickly much to Héloïse’s surprise.

M Yea I’ll be there

Wow. That easy. So inconsistent.


	3. a seven-hour train journey

Early Sunday morning, Héloïse is blinking around the train station with eyes as wide as saucers. Scanning the incoming crowds. She checks her phone every minute or so. 04:58 a.m. Then 04:59. Héloïse bites down on the inside of her cheek and keeps watching.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” says Hugo, conversationally. Héloïse turns her attention his way. He’s tanned – French-Iranian, Sophie mentioned before. Lanky, just about taller than Héloïse is, but next to Sophie he’s a skyscraper. He has ears that stick out and enormous hands. His eyes, though, are very kind, and Héloïse suspects that he is completely harmless.

Still. Héloïse becomes defensive, shifting her feet. “Well, we don’t really know each other,” she says, and then quickly adds: “You and me. Obviously I know Marianne.”

From the corner of Héloïse’s vision, Sophie rolls her eyes.

Thankfully, Hugo remains oblivious and turns his head to look down at Sophie. “You never mentioned.”

Sophie shrugs. She is stood very close to Hugo and wearing a Nirvana hoodie that is many sizes too big for her. Héloïse is relatively sure that Sophie has never listened to Nirvana in her life, at least not of her own accord. That’s Hugo’s hoodie. Héloïse can’t really comprehend the idea of letting your partner take your clothes. Once, an ex-girlfriend “borrowed” Héloïse’s jumper, and when Héloïse asked for it back she was given a truly withering stare. They broke up shortly after, but Héloïse did get her jumper back.

Héloïse checks her phone again. 05:00 a.m. She grits her teeth and kneads the handle of her travel bag.

“It’s only just turned five,” Sophie points out. When Héloïse looks, she sees that Sophie’s eyes are half-closed and she is resting her head against Hugo’s shoulder.

“I know,” Héloïse manages.

“Is she usually late to things?” asks Hugo.

Héloïse thinks to the bookshop, and their shared shifts. Her mouth twitches, and she stands a little straighter. “I’m always there before her,” she offers. Hugo nods.

At 5:02 a.m. Héloïse is close to chewing on her longest fingernail. But then, amongst the incoming crowds, a dark, unkempt mop of hair comes bobbing along. Héloïse swallows, craning her neck until she sees all of Marianne. Long legs striding, a silver travel bag being wheeled alongside her. When she spots Héloïse, Marianne’s mouth shuts and a certain wildness that resided in her eyes is stripped away as she recedes into herself. She slows her pace, much to Héloïse’s aggravation.

Héloïse realises, all at once, that Hugo is expecting them to greet like they don’t hate each other. In fact, they’re supposed to greet as though they like each other. A lot.

As Marianne approaches, Héloïse rushes through all possible options. But soon, it’s too late, and when Marianne is stood before her, Héloïse can’t even bring herself to outstretch a hand.

“Bonjour,” she blurts. Too formal. Too late.

Marianne’s expression remains still. “Bonjour,” she returns.

“This,” Héloïse is already stepping aside, revealing her companions with a stiff flourish, if there’s such a thing. “Is Sophie and Hugo.” She quickly rethinks. “Well, you know Sophie.”

Marianne hesitates for only a half-second before catching on. She extends a hand to Hugo and they exchange murmured pleasantries. When Marianne pulls away, she smiles at Sophie: “Hi again.”

“Hi,” Sophie doesn’t miss a beat. A natural actress. And, evidently, a lifesaver too, as she nods towards the gate. “We should head in, it’s departing soon.”

There’s a general agreement. Sophie and Hugo start off together, in a pair. Héloïse glances over and sees that Marianne is looking at her. For a moment, unbroken, they stare at each other. In tandem, both pull away and walk on. Treading along in step, Héloïse notices. Right foot first. It twinges something deep in the cavern of her chest, and she feels heat rising in her face. Embarrassment, she quickly notes, and purposefully times her steps so that she is no longer in unison with Marianne. They stare ahead in silence.

“You were late,” Héloïse manages, under her breath.

If Marianne hears it, she doesn’t respond. It’s likely that she didn’t. Héloïse swallows the urge to repeat herself. They stride along in silence until Hugo starts speaking to Marianne, and the four of them pick up an awkward but nonetheless steady rhythm.

\--

On the train, Sophie and Hugo sit on one side of the booth. And so, Héloïse and Marianne are left to the other side.

“I’ll have the window seat,” Marianne announces after she’s tossed her bag up onto the luggage rack.

Héloïse opens her mouth to argue but then thinks that a girlfriend would probably let Marianne take whatever seat she wants. Whatever she wants, or needs. But nobody _needs_ a window seat. This bothers her but Marianne has already slid in by the window. So Héloïse sits beside her instead. Their legs brush and both move away at the same time, unspoken.

The four chat somewhat sleepily. Soon, the train is moving.

“How are you planning to keep yourself entertained?” asks Marianne. Héloïse looks over and notices that, assumedly to keep the hair out of her face, Marianne has tied some of it back into an uneven, half-ponytail. Except her hair is too short for that to really work, so the ponytail sticks straight up like a unicorn horn. It looks so stupid and Héloïse has never been so annoyed by a hairstyle in her life. She struggles to look away.

“I’m going to sleep,” Sophie answers Marianne’s question. Her eyes are already half-shut. “And listen to a podcast, probably.”

“I’m actually not that tired,” Hugo sounds somewhat proud of himself. “Oh, and I brought a book, so…”

He unzips his small backpack and pulls out a paperback. It’s a thick, dog-eared thing with pages slightly yellowed. Second-hand and barely begun; a bookmark pokes out from near the beginning. When turned over and placed on the table, it tells Héloïse what it is in a few bold words: _The Book Thief._

As with all her favourite things, Héloïse perks. Some teeth flash within her asymmetrical smile, and she shifts about in her seat, arms folded on the table wedged between them. “Great choice. One of my favourites.”

 _“Vraiment?”_ comes an incredulous tone. When Héloïse looks, Marianne’s eyes are a little widened in vague interest. “I didn’t like that one, to be honest.”

Hugo shrugs. Sophie voices her agreement: “I couldn’t get into it.” Héloïse stares, and after a moment, blurts: “What? Why not?”

Marianne considers this for half a second, eyes travelling up to the ceiling. “Well, I tried to pick it up a few times and couldn’t get into it. The furthest I got was…” she looks to Hugo, “Well, I don’t want to spoil it.”

“How could you not get into it?” Héloïse shifts in her seat, glaring at Marianne. “Sophie doesn’t really read, so I got over her aversion to it. You have no excuse.”

“Of course I have an excuse.”

“Give it to me then.”

Marianne purses her lips, becoming a little ticked off at this point. Héloïse recognises this stage in their debates, though it usually takes a little more to wear Marianne down before the cracks start to show. “I thought the narrator was a little ridiculous. And the main girl…”

“Liesel.”

“Liesel didn’t interest me… none of the characters really did.”

“How far did you get?” Héloïse demands. She is still staring at Marianne, despite Marianne not returning the gaze. Her stupid unicorn horn is still sticking up. Héloïse wants to flick it.

“I don’t want to spoil,” Marianne repeats herself.

Héloïse isn’t moved. “Had you met Max?”

Marianne thinks for a moment. “No.”

 _“Voila!”_ Héloïse reels slightly. “You hardly got far at all!”

“Well, if I wasn’t interested by the first…” Marianne hesitates, “one-hundred pages or so, then I wasn’t going to keep going.”

“Yes, well then you shouldn’t be able to criticise a book that you haven’t finished…”

“I was hardly criticising it. I just said I didn’t like it very much.”

“That’s always your defence for these things. What, was it too long for you? Do you struggle with under fourteen size font?”

“Héloïse, that is so snobby,” Sophie is exasperated. “Also, the font size in that book is pretty big.”

Now that she points it out, Héloïse too hears the arrogance she had just spoken with. She almost takes it back, because she doesn’t mean to gatekeep. She doesn’t even mind when people prefer shorter books. _She_ likes to read short books sometimes. Why did she even say that?

But Marianne doesn’t seem at all bothered. In fact, she straightens and twists so that she’s facing Héloïse, one arm draped over the back of the seat. Those tied tufts of hair pointing determinedly at the ceiling. “I’ll have you know I read _Middlemarch_ twice as a teenager. And skimmed it again last year.”

 _Middlemarch._ That book is a mammoth task. Approximately 1800 pages, if Héloïse remembers correctly. It’s stacked low on her to-be-read pile at home, and so far she hasn’t gotten past the first few pages. Héloïse retains her composure, and shrugs, eyes wide in mocking. “Well, see, I’m not going to argue with you about that book because I haven’t finished it yet. I have the integrity to not make my points until I see things through…”

“Are you going to be bickering like this the whole journey?” Sophie jumps in again, weary. When Héloïse tears herself away from Marianne’s prickly stare, she sees that there is some sort of warning in Sophie’s furrowed brow. Hugo has a faint sense of alarm about him, though his eyes are politely averted to the window. He has put _The Book Thief_ back in his bag.

Héloïse opens her mouth before she realises what her excuse for their arguing is. “It’s… our love language.”

Sophie blinks in an exhausted manner. Beside her, Marianne clears her throat but says nothing. She has slouched back in her seat. Sulking? Héloïse refuses to look at her, instead turning her head towards Hugo in a pointed manner. “Hugo, don’t let Marianne’s lack of taste and stamina derail you. It’s a wonderful book.”

Hugo dares to look back to the table, gathering Héloïse’s expression. Héloïse tries to smile at him, but quickly drops the expression in fear that it would scare him even more.

After a silence, Marianne pipes up. _“Oui,_ you shouldn’t let my opinion deter you. You might love it, who knows?”

This surprises Héloïse to such a degree that she can’t stop herself from turning back to Marianne. She has her arms folded over her stomach and wears a peaceable expression. But within her restful hands and steady gaze, something ticks. She doesn’t look at Héloïse.

Which is good. Héloïse doesn’t want to be looked at by Marianne. She doesn’t want to speak to Marianne or sit next to her. She should’ve just gone to this wedding alone.

But the train is moving. Marianne watches out her window. Her unicorn horn remains.

\--

Every now and then on the train journey, Marianne shuts her eyes and rocks. Inhaling through her nose. Sometimes she does this for so long that Héloïse thinks she must be dozing off. Which would be very inconvenient. She’d likely snore, or talk in her sleep. What would she say?

But then, Marianne’s eyes crack open. Glossy and dark. Slivers of a moon.

Not that Héloïse is looking. She’s not.

Anyway. If Marianne talked in her sleep, she’d probably quote books that Héloïse hates. Just to spite her.

\--

They get off at Milano-Porta-Garibaldi railway station and tumble into the big ugly car park. Héloïse immediately starts scanning.

“Are you okay?” asks Hugo. Héloïse turns, seeing his concern as he peers at Sophie, who appears somewhat pale and bleary-eyed.

“Motion sickness,” she says after a moment.

Hugo puts an arm around her, and Sophie reaches up to squeeze his hand, which is slung over her shoulder. He leans to whisper something in her ear. For a moment the sun breaks through the clouds, and a fluttery smile appears on Sophie’s sickly expression.

Héloïse goes back to searching as they walk along the path.

“Are _you_ okay?” Héloïse glazes over this initially, only to double-take when she realises Marianne is looking at her expectantly. She has taken the unicorn-horn ponytail out, thank goodness, but some of the hair is still sticking up.

It takes Héloïse a minute to remember what they’re supposed to be faking. “Oh. Yes,” she answers. Lacking any affection in tone. After a pause: “I don’t get motion sick.”

“Me neither.”

“That’s good. So you’re…?”

“Okay. Yes. Fine.”

The awfully stilted conversation ends. Héloïse can feel Sophie’s glaring judgement but chooses to ignore it in favour of finding that car…

_“Héloïse!”_

Héloïse whips around, and when facing the opposite direction, she spots a woman racing down a slope in heeled boots. Her arms are outstretched, eyes glimmering. Before Héloïse knows it, she is enveloped and squeezed within an inch of her life. It doesn’t help that she is suddenly smothered by a heap of brown curls.

“Suzie – you’re choking me,” Héloïse wheezes, though still attempting to hug her sister in return.

She is released at last and sucks down a gulp of air.

Suzie makes a vaguely amused sound. “Look at you, gasping like you’ve been underwater all your life.” Her eyeshadow is sparkly and badly applied. On her chin, two acne scars sit nearly unnoticeable, all that remains of the terrible skin she had in her adolescence. “Dramatic as ever,” she flicks a thumb over Héloïse’s cheek.

Héloïse bats her away. “I’m not the one who ran across the car park in heels.”

“Oh, these are nice, aren’t they?” Suzie pulls back, striking a slight pose. Up close, they look more like cowboy boots. “They’re kind of killing my feet, though…”

Sophie coughs unconvincingly from behind, and Héloïse half-turns to reveal her, Hugo and Marianne standing awkwardly. Well, Sophie isn’t awkward. She’s marching forward, the sickness nearly drained from her expression as she shakes her head. “You have other guests, you know…”

Soon Sophie, too, is enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. She emerges from it somewhat dazed.

“My little cousin!” Suzie takes Sophie by the shoulders. “Both in age and height.”

“I can’t believe I’m surrounded by gigantic people.”

“Oh! Speaking of fellow giants,” Suzie looks over to the remaining guests. “Am I going to be introduced?”

Sophie quickly introduces Hugo, who is luckily not subjected to the same hug that Héloïse and Sophie endured, instead receiving a thorough handshake. And then, she turns to Marianne, who has been rather still through all the greetings. There’s a speck of silence before Héloïse remembers herself.

“Right. Yes. This is Marianne, my…” she doesn’t finish her sentence.

Thankfully, Suzie glazes over this. She is already vigorously shaking Marianne’s hand. “Of course, Marianne! Good for you for putting up with my disastrous little shit of a sister.”

Marianne snorts – actually _snorts._ Héloïse is so perplexed by this that she almost doesn’t notice the gleam of delight in Suzie’s silvery eyes. Suzie drops the handshake and gives Marianne a quick, rather subtle once-over. “We’re going to get along, I think.”

“You’re only saying that because Marianne laughed at your joke,” Sophie points out the obvious.

“Hardly a joke. It was just insulting,” Héloïse isn’t very amused.

“That’s why it was funny,” says Marianne, speaking for the first time since Suzie appeared. Her tone of voice is… gentle. Which is unlike anything Héloïse has heard coming from Marianne’s mouth. It startles her, and for a moment she’s not sure that Marianne actually said it at all.

But Suzie hums and turns to Héloïse with raised eyebrows as if to say: _I like her._ Héloïse stares back, dumbfounded. But there’s no time to dwell. Suzie skips along the path, back up the slope she came down just a minute ago.

“The car’s up here!” she beckons them along. “Sophie, you look green. You can sit in the front.”

“Oh, merci,” Sophie says with a sigh. Marianne and Hugo appear to be a little baffled, though amused. Héloïse bites her tongue and follows.

Suzie’s on a high. Héloïse can tell. Really, when was the last time she saw Suzie _skip?_ And when they get in the car and switch on the radio, Suzie hums along to everything. Even the songs she doesn’t know.

Love will do that to you. Probably.

\--

It’s not a long ride, especially not compared to the train journey. Suzie talks for most of it, the only one in the car who has gotten an adequate few hours of sleep. It’s fun to listen, mostly because when Suzie is cheerful she babbles nonsensically about anything and everything. Though a fair bit of this talking is concentrated.

“So, how much have your girlfriends told you about what you’re walking into?” Suzie asks, both hands on the wheel.

The word ‘girlfriend’ shoots something cold through Héloïse’s chest. She averts her eyes to the rolling view, having managed to take the window seat to spite Marianne. Who is now stuck in the middle, squashed in-between Hugo and Héloïse. Their calves often brush. Which is irritating. Héloïse pulls her legs all the way aside.

“Not much,” Hugo admits. Héloïse glances over and sees that he has put on a pair of sunglasses. It’s true, that out here the sun is shining.

“Same here,” Marianne echoes. Héloïse does not look at her.

“I wanted to surprise him,” Sophie defends. She seems to be feeling better.

“What’s your defence, Héloïse?” asks Suzie, peering at her through the rear-view mirror.

Héloïse opens her mouth, but a breezy voice cuts across. “She never tells me anything. I’m used to it.” If Marianne weren’t smiling just a little as she said this, it could be mistaken for being malicious. Which is probably what the underlying intention was. Héloïse glares at the back of Sophie’s seat, unable to muster a smile of pretence.

Thankfully, Suzie laughs. “I know that feeling! Growing up I think I only met one of Héloïse’s dates, and that was by mistake.”

“Don’t bring that up,” grumbles Héloïse, but Sophie gasps in delight at the topic.

“Oh my _god,_ was that when you walked in-“

“Yes. I was scarred for life.”

“Sure, _you_ were scarred for life,” Héloïse raises her voice, the heat crawling up her throat. She crosses her arms and sinks, the seatbelt crawling up to her throat. She dares to glance over (just for a second) at Marianne. Who is mostly still, eyes flicking back and forth between Sophie and Suzie while they smother their giggles. There’s a certain gleam about her face. Héloïse looks away again, bristling. “We’re not talking about that.”

Sophie hums, and Suzie nods. “Sorry. Anyway, there’s not a huge amount to know. My fiancé is Giovanni, he’s from this village we’re staying in.”

“They met as kids while Suzie and Héloïse were staying on holiday up here,” Sophie cuts in. Héloïse can hear the smile in her voice. “It’s a proper love story.”

Hugo ‘awws’ but Héloïse is quick to cut in. “It hardly seemed that at the time,” she smiles just a little at the memory, only fond in retrospect. “He was _so_ annoying. You hated him.”

“I think you hated him more,” Suzie twists the wheel in her grip, and the car rounds a bend, crawling up a slope. “You punched him that one time.”

“You did?” Hugo sounds more amused than shocked. Marianne says nothing.

“I was eleven,” Héloïse defends herself, “he said girls couldn’t punch.”

“That was stupid of him,” Sophie concurs.

“Thank you, Sophie. And anyway, he was hardly angry - more impressed. Now he’s a feminist. Character development.”

“He’s also an adult now,” Suzie adds, “and he grew out of all that when we were teenagers… anyway, you’ll hear all that during the vows or the speeches.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually getting married,” Sophie shakes her head.

“Well, don’t sound that astonished.”

“That’s not what I mean! It’s just exciting.”

“Mm,” Suzie hums. Her face is glowing. On the ring finger of her right hand, which grips the steering wheel, clings an engagement ring. Héloïse remembers the night that Suzie rang her, crying, and Héloïse was close to buying a ticket to go see her, terrified that something awful had happened. When Suzie revealed that Gio had proposed, Héloïse was at first simply irritated for having been misled. And then, of course, it hit her. And she cheered and congratulated. But when the call ended, some cold wash of water overcame her. Not jealousy. Something unfamiliar and shivery. Héloïse feels it now, looking at Suzie’s silver ring. The coldness soaks deep. It rattles through her bones and all along the length of her spine. She ignores it.

Héloïse turns her head only slightly. Marianne’s mouth is a flat line. Dark eyes pensive. Within half a second, she looks over at Héloïse, who in turn veers away, annoyed. Not willing to be caught.

Suzie carries on. About the family holiday home they’ll be staying in, and venue, the bachelorette party which is happening tomorrow and which both Marianne and Hugo are promptly invited to – though they’ll be congregating back at the house with Gio and his friends and relatives afterwards. Suzie brings up, rather moodily, how Héloïse refused to be the maid of honour, and was even nervous at the prospect of being a bridesmaid. Héloïse hardly acknowledges this. Instead, she stares determinedly out the window as any remnants of city peel away.

\--

The village is small and kind to Héloïse’s memory. Many of her summers and some winters were spent up here as a child and a teenager. Suzie lives here now, with Gio, but Héloïse hasn’t been back in about five years. It’s hardly changed. Rolling green and painted houses, dusty buildings. The kind of quietness that sings. Héloïse rolls her window down.

The house is up a hill and around a few bends, hidden by evergreens. There are a few cars outside already, and two young boys playing with water-balloons in the small garden out the front. They run inside when they see the car. “Gio’s nephews,” explains Suzie, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Is maman here yet?” asks Héloïse when she’s out of the car, moving around to get her bag from the boot.

“She got here yesterday. I think she’s out for the minute, though,” Suzie throws Héloïse a sparkly smile. “You’re safe for now.”

When Marianne steps out, she throws her head back and blinks up at the house. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

For once she’s right. It’s a huge, rustic place. It holds up well even in comparison to Héloïse’s memories, which are turned misty by clouds of sweet nostalgia. The shutters on the windows are painted pale green. The door is already open.

They roll their bags in and Suzie is immediately attacked from either side by two – no, three children. The two boys and one younger girl. Suzie squeals and bats them away in mock-annoyance. But they giggle and she ruffles their hair. The little girl eyes the guests shyly (she has Gio’s black hair, tied into space-buns) and runs off before Héloïse can think to smile at her.

“They’re the only kids we’re allowing at the wedding,” Suzie explains over her shoulder. The hallway is narrow, but soon gives away to a grand living room in one door, and a kitchen in the other. Down the end, it opens into the dining room, long, cluttered and covered wall to wall in windows. Out the back is the garden. Smaller than Héloïse remembers. She has grown, though.

Marianne steps in beside Héloïse. Pieces of her fringe are stuck to her forehead with sweat. “There’s a pool.”

There is. “Yes.”

Marianne says nothing more in regard to this.

“Speaking of the pool,” Suzie walks across the dining room, pulling off her jacket as she goes. She leans out the open door and shouts: “Gio! They’re here!”

From the water emerges the fiancé in question. He makes an ungraceful exit from the pool and grabs a towel, tossing it around his shoulders.

“He’s shirtless,” Héloïse can’t keep the disdain from her voice. Sophie swats her on the shoulder.

Suzie steps away from the door, tying her jacket around her waist. Gio comes in while quickly drying his face and scanning the new arrivals. “Wow, hi, I – oh, Sophie, I haven’t seen you in ages! Hi Héloïse.”

“Hello.”

“And, uh…”

“This is Hugo, Sophie’s boyfriend,” Suzie gestures helpfully. Gio and Hugo shake hands. “And Marianne, Héloïse’s girlfriend.”

That word again. Héloïse shivers inadvertently and feels herself being stared at by Sophie.

Not by Marianne, though, who is shaking Gio’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” She is smiling. Her eyes are wide. Héloïse stirs.

“You too, glad you could come,” Gio nods. He yanks at each end of the towel slung around his shoulders. “I would hug you all, but,” he gestures to himself.

“Since when do you hug people?” Héloïse teases, arms folded.

“I don’t really,” Gio admits. “But I have started now, for some reason? I think I just get nervous when I meet new people and then trick them into thinking I’m a hugger.”

A slight, awkward laugh goes around the group. But despite Gio’s nervousness, Suzie is smiling at him, eyes glittering. Héloïse glances at Marianne again. Who is also watching Gio, head tilted like she’s waiting. For what? Why is she looking at him that way? It’s weird. Maybe she looks at everyone like that. Still weird.

“Are you all staying in the house, then?” Gio asks.

“Yes! They are,” Suzie snaps out of her slight daze and claps her hands. “Okay, I’ll show you to your rooms. You can rest or something if you’re tired.”

Gio says a very fumbled goodbye. When he’s gone and they’ve started up the stairs, Hugo hums and turns to Héloïse. “You punched _him?”_

Héloïse shrugs. “He deserved it at the time.”

“But he’s so…” Hugo makes a vague gesture with his free hand, the other one carrying his bag up the stairs.

“Awkward,” Marianne finishes the sentence without a problem.

Wow, blunt. Thankfully, Suzie laughs. “He’s usually like that around new people. I think it’s cute.”

“It’s weird,” Héloïse pulls her travel bag up another step.

They reach the landing on the first floor and Suzie rolls her eyes. “You’re hardly any better, Héloïse. At least Gio is awkward and warm at the same time.”

Héloïse wipes her mouth. That stings a little. The others laugh, though. Except for Marianne, who stares down the corridor, wordless. Maybe she wasn’t listening. Typical.

“This is for Sophie and Hugo,” Suzie pushes open a door and gestures inside. Sophie and Hugo stumble inside without another word, both clearly tired.

One room for the pair of them. Which makes sense; they’re a couple. But that means –

“You two are down here,” Suzie beckons with a flourish.

Oh god. No. Héloïse does not look at Marianne.

But, low and behold, it’s one room. And within it, as Suzie steps aside, are olive walls. A window peering out to the back garden, a door through which is a small bathroom. And a bed. One bed, with snowy sheets and the headboard pushed up against the back wall.

Héloïse doesn’t go in. Neither does Marianne. Who Héloïse will _not_ look at.

“Go on,” Suzie pulls Héloïse back to life. Suzie drops her arm back to her side and stands there expectantly, yet still oblivious to the absolute tirade raging in Héloïse’s mind.

Why. The fuck. Did she not think about this aspect.

“Thank you.” The words don’t come from Héloïse, instead Marianne. Who, by some extraordinary force of magic, walks through the door, wheeling her bag in behind her. Héloïse stares pointedly at the bedside table. And follows Marianne in.

“Okay,” Suzie puts a hand to either side of the doorframe and leans in, a smile bright across her cheeks. “I’ll leave you to settle.”

“Thanks,” says Héloïse weakly.

“This is great,” agrees Marianne, her tone of voice stiff.

Suzie shakes her head. “You’re both weird.” Pause. “But well suited.”

And then she’s gone. Without shutting the door.

Héloïse does not get up to shut it. She sits, gingerly, on the left side of the bed.

The bed.

What. The fuck.

After a long moment, Marianne walks across the room to the door and shuts it. Then she turns, and her mouth is open. But no words come out.

Oh my god. Just say something. Héloïse keeps her lips firmly pressed together. She kneads the handle of her travel bag.

Marianne shuts her mouth at last and stuffs her hands into the pockets of her trousers. _“Venir,”_ she instructs.

Héloïse stares at her.

Marianne widens her eyes and jerks her head. Héloïse bites hard on the inside of her cheek and wills it to bleed. She stands, letting go of her bag, and walks across to stand beside Marianne. Who says: “Look.” Nodding at the bed.

Héloïse looks at the bed. Double bed. For couples.

There’s a silence.

“It’s big,” says Marianne.

“No way, really?” deadpans Héloïse.

“Shut up. I mean, it’s big enough. For us to stay to our own sides.”

Héloïse blinks.

There is another long-drawn silence.

It is a huge bed.

“I want the left side,” Héloïse bites.

“Fine by me.”

And, like clouds do when the rain at last relents, they disperse.


	4. that which rages in the place of dearest love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In most of the book discussions in this fic I try to steer clear of spoilers, but I couldn’t avoid them this time. So, MAJOR spoiler warning for Euripides’ play, ‘Medea’, which I would highly recommend, even if it’s spoiled for you in this chapter. Enjoy :)

When Héloïse wakes in the late afternoon, she pulls her groggy head from the pillow. The duvet is still neatly tucked. She fell asleep on top of it, despite having only intended to rest for maybe twenty minutes or so. She checks her phone. Moves to the open window, pulling aside the paper-thin linen curtains to see the sky. Impossibly blue. She is stricken by a rare moment of bliss. Maybe all her grumpiness early has been cured by sleep. She should take advantage of the clear skies. And that beautiful back garden.

Héloïse smooths down her hair in the mirror and scrubs the sleep from her eyes. She changes from her ugly tracksuit bottoms into a pair of summery, wide-leg trousers. Héloïse hasn’t worn them in a while and needs a tad more effort to pull them up over her hips. She tries not to think about that. Grabs one of the three books she brought with her and holds it in both hands when leaving the room.

The hall is long and empty. All the doors are open, excluding Sophie and Hugo’s. Héloïse lightens her steps as she walks past and down the wooden staircase.

Turning into the hallway, Héloïse is jump-scared.

“Ah, maman!” she braces herself with one hand on the banister. “Why would you stand right there? I could’ve walked into you.”

Before her, Héloïse’s maman is hardly much to fear, at least at first glance. Short and curly-haired, wearing a long, light-blue cardigan and sandals. She inhales. “You should always check around corners instead of walking on blindly.”

“The people who stand around the corners should listen for footsteps and take a hint,” Héloïse hesitates a moment longer before walking past her maman and into the dining room, though not entirely sure where she’s going, as she’s sure the conversation isn’t over yet.

She’s right. “Have you been hiding out in your room? Is that why you didn’t go out with the others?”

Héloïse rolls her eyes, back turned. Wandering into the kitchen, the back door is open and the garden waits behind glass windows. Héloïse is eager to escape, but that would only prove her maman’s point about ‘hiding out’. So instead, she pretends to take interest in the circular table, which Héloïse remembers taking breakfast at when she stayed here as a child. She wrote her name on one of the table legs once. She’ll have to check later, when no-one’s watching, if it’s still there. What was maman’s question? Oh, yes. “I had a nap.”

“You didn’t sleep on the train?”

“You know I can’t sleep on transport,” Héloïse struggles to remain patient. She looks up, again, at her maman, who is stood in the doorway of the dining room. She is wearing an Apple wristwatch. “When did you get that?”

“What?”

Héloïse points half-heartedly at the watch. “Do you know how to use it?”

“No. Where’s your date?”

The sudden change in conversation topic isn’t a surprise. Héloïse is used to that from her maman. In fact, she’s guilty of it herself. It might be genetic. But the mention of Héloïse’s – of Marianne.

She is drenched in memory. Oh, yes. Their fake relationship. The train journey. Marianne’s unicorn horn and irritating expressions and stupid opinions. The bed – oh for _fuck’s_ sake. The bed. Héloïse grits her teeth, drumming her bitten fingernails on the cover of her book. “I don’t know,” she answers.

“You don’t keep track of her?”

“She’s not my dog,” Héloïse bites at the skin on her bottom lip, tearing it up. “She left the room before I had my nap. I didn’t mean to be asleep for so long, so maybe she went out with the others… where are they?”

“Suzie and Gio went on a walk with Gio’s nephews and parents. I think his siblings are somewhere in the house, still,” maman takes a few ominous steps into the room. Her sandals made a disappointing noise against the floorboards. “Am I going to meet her?”

 _“Meet_ her?” Héloïse splutters. Actually, she didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Yes!” maman’s eyebrows shoot up. She appears vaguely amused. When Héloïse doesn’t answer, she moves on. “You haven’t told me her name.”

Hadn’t she? Héloïse hadn’t texted her maman much information about Marianne, mostly because she was half-convinced that they would have come to their senses and cancelled the plan. Which is what they should have done. Héloïse opens her mouth. Her jaw hangs slack for a few stuttering seconds before she manages: “Marianne.”

Maman nods. “Marianne,” she tastes it and nods again.

“You know we’re not…” Héloïse gives a vague hand gesture, unwilling and unable to elaborate.

“That serious. Yes, I know,” maman waves it around with one hand. But then, eyes averted and wide, she shrugs. “But you did invite her to a wedding. Suzie’s wedding. So maybe it will become a bit more… serious.”

Héloïse doesn’t move, nor does she speak. Of course, Héloïse meant to say that she and Marianne are not together. Full stop. No semi-colon or comma. Certainly no brackets. They are simply feigning a relationship to get relatives off of both Héloïse’s and her maman’s back.

But the hope in her maman’s tone halts something in Héloïse’s chest. Would it hurt, just to let her believe like everyone else, even to a lesser degree? That maybe her younger daughter isn’t a lost cause after all.

Either way, Héloïse can’t seem to force the truth past her lips.

Instead, she says: “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Maman meets her eyes. “Thank you for bringing her.” Pause. “It’s nice to see you.” Inexplicably, she smiles.

Héloïse isn’t quite sure how to respond to this. _“Oui,_ you too,” she settles, her tone unintentionally defensive. As is her body language, she realises. Though Héloïse seems incapable of dropping the tension from her shoulders and jaw.

After a moment. “I’m going to read outside. For a bit.”

“Okay. I think I’ll convince Suzie and Gio to let me make dinner when they come back with the others.” A certain sparkle alights in maman’s eyes at the mention, and with ease, she bustles her way out of the dining room in search of the kitchen. Likely to start opening and closing cupboards and drawers. Typical. Héloïse might smile was she not so on edge.

But the garden. Héloïse turns away. Out the open back door.

When she was little, the garden was something from a book. A grand, mystical thing, with slender trees, twirling like ribbon into the sky, and grass that turned as sharp and green as a precious stone in the months of summer. Sometimes, when her relatives neglected to take out the old lawnmower, the grass would be long enough for her and her sister to hide in, stalking through on hands and knees like wild things. Covered in greenflies and grass stains.

The roughest areas were always her favourite. Near the back of the house, where Héloïse is stood now, it’s less unkempt. There are tiles, potted plants and an outdoor table with some drained wine glasses cluttered together. And by the pool are some deck chairs. Perfect.

Perfect until Héloïse is walking to the deckchair, book in hand, and notices abruptly some rippling in the water, and the dark shape that moves beneath. It twists, and bursts to the surface. Flinging hands and an open mouth. Héloïse freezes, watching Marianne bob about in the deep end, effortlessly treading water and using one hand to pick the hair from where it’s stuck, slick and dark, to her forehead. When she can see again, she blinks at Héloïse. It’s impossible to distinguish whether or not she is surprised. “Hello.”

“I thought you were out with the others,” says Héloïse, before she can think to say hello in return. There’s a knot tied in her stomach, and her jaw is pulled tight, as though by invisible string.

Marianne doesn’t respond immediately. She leans away from Héloïse’s stare, twisting onto her front and swimming away, further up to the deep end. Héloïse unfreezes and tries to settle her irritation, walking rather stiffly towards the chairs. As she goes, Marianne calls over the sound of swishing water. “Do you wish I was out with the others?”

What an odd thing to say. It irks Héloïse enough to make the truth fall sharply from her tongue as she lowers herself onto a faded green deck chair “Yes, I do. I was hoping for some peace.”

Marianne kicks her legs under the water, and grabs hold of the bar attached to one side. She catches her breath and says, without looking at Héloïse: “Who says I won’t be peaceful?”

For a little while, Marianne does keep to herself. Much to Héloïse’s surprise. In fact, it’s so surprising that she can’t quite concentrate on the book she has open, held by both hands on her stomach. She stares at the words but only hears the splashing, the disturbance of the water. Every now and then she gives in and glances, catching a flash of Marianne’s pale arm being pulled in a neat stroke. It’s very frustrating and distracting. Héloïse is on the brink of storming off to the far end of the garden and hiding in the grass, never to be found, so she can turn back into a ten-year-old, who had no reason to be angry and yet still was. All the time. She was a hellish child. If Héloïse was ten again, she would relish in her freedom from romance and work and rush and constant connection. She wouldn’t fight with Suzie. She misses it, she misses it.

And now she’s distracted by that too. And it’s Marianne’s fault. Héloïse presses the top row of her teeth down on her tongue. And reads the same sentence again.

 _‘Youth is what I love._  
Age weighs on my head like a burden  
Heavier than the rocks of Etna.’

“What are you reading?”

There it is. The bursting of peace, inevitable with Marianne’s inconsiderate, nosey manner. Pressing her bitten tongue to the roof of her mouth, Héloïse peers over the book and watches Marianne pull herself up from the water just enough to fold her arms on the tiles. Her hair is slick down her shoulders, and she awaits an answer. Héloïse considers ignoring her but decides it’s too late now. “Euripides.”

“Which of his?” Marianne tilts her head as she asks, planting a wet cheek against her shoulder. In the water, she kicks her legs gently. The sound of it is going to drive Héloïse mad.

She picks at the unpleasant plastic-y texture of the book cover, returning her stare to the page. “Heracles,” she pauses, then adds: “It’s a collection. I had only read Medea before.”

“Ugh.”

Héloïse nearly drops the book flat on her stomach. She straightens her head and stares hard at Marianne.

Marianne stares back. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘ugh’?” Héloïse musters eventually, though she can already feel that familiar fury writhing in her gut, growing at a dramatic rate.

Marianne squints. “I mean ‘ugh’ because it’s Medea.”

“So you don’t like Medea.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Not at all?” Héloïse is stone, her voice low and stormy.

Much to her chagrin, Marianne’s eyes flash at the change in Héloïse’s tone. “Oh! So you really like this one.”

Héloïse shakes her head, not in disagreement with Marianne’s statement, but with disbelief. She refuses to sit up, though, still trying to convince herself that she’s not about to fling herself headfirst into debate. “It’s my favourite play.”

Marianne readjusts herself, pulling herself further from the water. There’s strain in her words from having to brace herself against the tiles. “That’s surprising. Your favourite play is written by an old man? Specifically a man from 400 BCE?”

Now she’s pushing it. “Have you even read it?”

“I have,” Marianne sounds vaguely offended. “I found it horrific.”

Héloïse breaks. She sits up, legs tangling underneath her. She begins to page back through the collection. While she is sorting herself, Marianne gets another word in: “Didn’t you?”

“Didn’t I what?”

“Find it horrific.”

Héloïse bites on her tongue because though it irks her, Marianne is not… entirely wrong. Well, she is. But ‘Medea’ is not a pretty piece. It recounts the tale of a powerful woman scorned by her husband after he plans to take the princess as his wife in favour of becoming royalty, leaving Medea heartbroken and vengeful. To the degree where she will do anything to make her husband sorry. Killing her two young sons is just one part of her plot, though it is the hardest to read and/or watch. So, yes. Horrific is not an incorrect adjective.

Did Héloïse find it so? “Yes, I did,” she admits. Her begrudging admittance lasts hardly a second. “But I also found it ground-breaking and beautiful.”

Marianne’s eyes widen. “Beautiful?”

Héloïse says nothing.

Marianne looks away, mouth opening and shutting. Then, she closes it firmly and inhales sharply through her nose. Marianne grips onto the bar and pulls herself up and out, ignoring the perfectly good pool ladder that is not far away. The water ripples on her skin and pours in rivulets from her hair. Her swimsuit is a peaceable shade of red, sticking to her skin. Héloïse has never seen so much of her skin. Which isn’t a weird thought; it’s just an observation.

“I’ve never heard you use that word before,” Marianne continues once she is on her knees on the tiles, swallowing a chatter. “And I don’t see how this was… beautiful. At all.”

Marianne stands and Héloïse finally manages to look away. For some reason, her voice is pitched slightly higher than before when she hears herself ask: “What translation did you read?”

Marianne takes a moment to answer. From the corner of Héloïse’s eye, Marianne pads across the tiles towards a deck-chair with a towel draped across it. “The one you have there,” she answers while wrapping herself up, still standing.

“And you don’t find it…” Héloïse is self-conscious of that word now. Instead, she bites quickly on the inside of her cheek, pleasantly sharp, almost a reassurance, and pages through the ‘Medea’ section of the book. The highlighting is done in luminous orange. She scans quickly and soon finds a worthy example.

 _“Arm yourself, my heart,”_ Héloïse begins, speaking slowly, trying her best to relish the words. _“The thing you must do is fearful, yet inevitable. Why wait, then? My accursed hand, come, take the sword; take it, and forward to your frontier of despair. No cowardice, no tender memories; forget that you once loved them, that of your body they were born.”_

Héloïse lingers on the page a moment more before gauging reaction. Marianne is sat down on the deck-chair now, pulling the towel across her body. She isn’t shivering, and in fact, is completely still. Though this doesn’t last, and soon Marianne sits up straight and makes her case.

“That’s not beautiful,” she begins, which is a bold opener, to put it politely. Marianne elaborates after seeing Héloïse’s facial reaction. “It’s poetically written, but…” Marianne sighs and dabs the towel at her throat. “She’s talking about murdering her children there.”

This is true, but not enough for Héloïse to cave. Nothing makes Héloïse cave. “Is that your big problem with it?” she asks, “That Medea does horrible things? I thought you liked unlikeable characters – what about ‘ _Conversations With Friends’?”_

For a moment, a quiver of surprise crosses Marianne’s face, but it is soon replaced by her usual nonchalance. “There’s hardly a fine line between being a bit annoying and killing people. Killing children,” Marianne says dryly, towelling at the dripping ends of her hair. “And, yes, that is my problem with it because Medea is just… this awful caricature of who men thought women were at that time.”

Héloïse twists in her deck-chair, throwing her legs over the side and planting both feet firmly on the tiles. “That’s what she was meant to be. I’m not bowing down to Euripides in any manner,” Héloïse hunches over, rushing her words. “He didn’t write Medea to be a feminist icon, I know that. Medea was everything men feared in women: a witch, a foreigner, a manipulator, an individual. Intelligent, divine, vengeful, obsessed. In fact, Euripides made her worse. In the original myth, Medea always hired someone to kill her sons. In his play, she does it herself. He wrote her this way to scare his all-male audiences. To warn them, even. But I think he accidentally made her sympathetic.”

Héloïse inhales through her nose and shuts her eyes. _“I’d rather stand three times on the front line than bear one child,”_ she quotes. When her eyes open, the corners of Marianne’s mouth are downturned and she has the towel around her shoulders again. Héloïse presses on, flourishing the book with one hand. “That was not meant to be a revolutionary line but it certainly comes off that way today. It’s more powerful for us as women to reinterpret and take Medea into our own hands, where she can be understood like a three-dimensional character. Maybe still a villain, someone unlikeable or hateable, but not a caricature.”

Héloïse tries to quietly catch her breath, awaiting response. Marianne gives in after only a few seconds of thought.

“I don’t think I could see her as three-dimensional,” Marianne admits, and Héloïse is about to throttle someone. Was she even listening? Marianne straightens her posture and elaborates. “Sure, she’s a victim of her time and I see how she could be reinterpreted but all her actions are centred around her husband.” Marianne is not looking at Héloïse, instead staring pointedly at the undisturbed surface of the pool. “Medea went insane because of her obsession with a man and all her actions are centred around him.”

Héloïse hardly hesitates. “She’s not insane.”

Marianne takes a moment before returning her gaze to Héloïse, eyes narrowed as if to say: _“Ha-ha, very funny.”_ But when she sees that Héloïse is not laughing, alarm overcomes Marianne. Her pupils shrink, eyebrows stiff and raised. The corners of her mouth dip. “Of course she’s insane.”

Héloïse doesn’t blink.

Marianne’s patience is unravelling. She throws her hands up for just a moment before letting them fall to her lap. The towel half-tumbles from one shoulder, but she doesn’t fix it. “She murdered her children, how could a sane person do that?”

Héloïse gives a short shake of her head, looking away from Marianne’s short-circuiting, returning to the book. “She’s not insane. That’s what makes it even more shocking.”

She picks through the pages again, even as Marianne makes some spluttering noises.

“That makes no sense. How are you defending-“

 _“Oh, my heart, don’t,”_ Héloïse cuts in, loud and unapologetic, tracing the words with one finger. _“Don’t do it! Oh, miserable heart, let them be! Spare your children!”_

Marianne has fallen quiet. Héloïse jabs a finger at the page, tapping it twice. “Here, in this part, she argues with herself,” Héloïse looks up, leaning forward again, still gripping the book. “Medea is fully conscious of what she’s doing and she hates it. She just truly believes there is no other way because she’s so self-absorbed. See –“ Héloïse shuffles in her seat, brightening with another point. “That’s what makes her interesting. Medea’s hamartia – her fatal flaw – is her pride. Arrogance. Self-obsession. Hubris. That’s why she believes she can get away with everything. She admits it herself – she says,”

Héloïse shuts her eyes again, tracing the cursive words in her head as she speaks them. “ _I can endure guilt, however horrible; the laughter of my enemies I will not endure.”_

Eyes open. Voice lowered for the climax. “That’s why Medea kills her children. Not because she’s insane, not even because of her husband. It’s for herself. For the sake of her reputation. She loves herself more than she loves her children. The last thing she says before she leaves to kill them is mourning herself. She says: _“Life has been cruel to me.”_

Héloïse hesitates, and straightens, no longer hunching towards Marianne. They are at eye level. She regains her breath and thinks to slow her speech. “So you can say that Medea is cruel and horrible and upsetting,” she says after a twittering silence. “You’d be right. But she is not a one-dimensional ‘crazy’ woman.”

And Marianne…

says nothing.

She just sits there and stares at Héloïse. Wet-faced, mouth open by a sliver.

Marianne is never speechless. She always has something to say, and even though she sometimes lets the moment slide and remains quiet, Héloïse can always tell when she has more to add. Which is always. It frustrates Héloïse to no end when Marianne doesn’t say something. What has she almost added to conversation? Would it have changed something?

Changed what, though?

Why. Isn’t she saying anything.

Why are they still staring at each other.

Or at least they are until Marianne’s stare flits away, lingering over Héloïse’s shoulder. It’s only then that Héloïse clues into her surroundings, and hears the faint slapping of flip-flops against tiles. Before Héloïse, Marianne composes herself, looking away to dab at her face with the towel, shutting her mouth at last. Before Héloïse can shake off this odd, shivery feeling and turn to see who is approaching, the game is given away by a familiar voice: “So, the monster has awoken from her hundred-year slumber.”

Héloïse casts her eyes to the sky as she twists in the deck-chair, electing to pretend that Marianne is not there and that they were not just having a fierce argument. Even though, judging by the distance of which Suzie is to them by now, it’s fair to assume that she already heard part of it. Though she is smiling and glittering like usual, so not all is lost.

Héloïse nods at her sister’s footwear. “Changed your shoes?”

Suzie sighs, pausing beside the deck chair and kicking one foot into the air, revealing an orange flip-flop. Her toenails are painted deep blue. “The heels were giving me blisters.”

“We must suffer for our fashion.”

“Says you.”

“What does that mean? I’m perfectly fashionable.”

Suzie laughs, though Héloïse is being serious. Suzie, hands on hips, pulls her stare from Héloïse’s face and settles behind her, smile blooming. “How was your swim?”

Héloïse remains facing stubbornly away. Behind her, she hears a chattery: “Cold." Pause. “How was your walk?”

Suzie considers this. “Warm, funnily enough.”

“Mm. I’m actually going to go up and change.”

There’s a scratch, chair legs against the tiles, and then wet feet padding along. Marianne appears in Héloïse’s vision, donning her towel and striding along, delivering them both a little wave. “See you inside.”

“See you,” chorus Héloïse and Suzie. Marianne shuffles off.

Héloïse doesn’t realise it until Marianne is inside and out of view, but she watched her all the way into the house. It’s only after she’s gone in that Héloïse blinks, returning to life only to find that Suzie has already taken to reclining on the deckchair beside her.

After a moment of quiet where Héloïse debates going inside and finding a place where she can finally read in peace, Suzie speaks. “You two have a good connection.”

It’s not said in jest. Suzie is smiling, but only a little, and in a sweet manner rather than a mocking one. Which is weird, because that’s one of the funniest statements Héloïse has heard in some time. A good connection? Her and Marianne, of all people, do not fit that description. Héloïse thinks at first that she might not answer. She sits properly on the deckchair, stretching out her legs. The book lies on her lap, page lost. Héloïse’s bookmark is in another one of the books she brought.

Héloïse wrestles with a question, wondering whether or not to ask. But before she can decide, it’s rolling from her tongue. “You don’t think it’s weird that we were just arguing?”

Héloïse tries to sound as casual as possible and doesn’t know how well she succeeds. She half-expects Suzie to turn an alarmed eye upon her and take back her statement about her and Marianne’s mythical connection.

Instead, Suzie barely has to think about her answer. “You weren’t arguing. That was a debate. You were discussing the book and putting forward points to your own argument. That sort of thing keeps the spark going in relationships.”

Much to unpack. A debate rather than an argument. It was certainly a nicer way to put it, and Héloïse isn’t about to contradict and make her and Marianne’s ‘relationship’ even rockier in Suzie’s eyes. Though she will probably google the definition of those two words later. But the spark. Suzie thinks her and Marianne have a spark?

Héloïse decides, ultimately, that the best course of action is to change the subject. “You say it like you’re so old and wise.”

Suzie wriggles, restless in her seat. She beams to herself. Glowing. “Well, I’m getting married in a few days!”

Héloïse curls her tongue, fingers curling around the arms of her chair. She feels prickled with sudden chill.

Suzie must notice the heaviness of Héloïse’s silence. “What?” she asks, and when Héloïse stares firmly ahead, she hears Suzie’s laugh, brazen and horn-like. “Come on, I know _you_ never wanted to get married, but I always have. Since I was a kid.”

“I know,” Héloïse says. And she does. She grew up hearing all about it. As a child, Suzie would use their unreliable internet connection to google wedding dresses. For years she had her heart set on a particularly dazzling white gown that Héloïse was never fond of. Too puffy. But when Suzie had her feminist literature phase (which is still more or less ongoing) she learnt that white symbolised purity, and would rant all through their weekly family dinners about how ridiculous it was that the woman is supposed to be virginal and pure. Héloïse was mortified when Suzie, age fourteen, talked unabashedly about slut-shaming and the politics of sex and love in front of their mother (and sometimes their extended family). Now, she sort of respects it, though she still turns tight-lipped when talking about sex at the dinner table. Which Suzie still does sometimes.

But the white dress was the biggest problem she had with weddings, and many of her gripes were fixable. And yet Héloïse has never really grasped that this is something Suzie wants so badly. Until now.

Suzie picks up on the silence once again. “What?” she asks, a touch more patient.

Héloïse hesitates but then breaks. “I thought you’d change your mind!”

Suzie makes a high-pitched sound in her throat. Héloïse sneaks a glance and sees that she is still reclining, hardly having moved aside from turning her head to look over at Héloïse. “Don’t people say that you’ll change your mind about not getting married?”

Yes. Constantly. Héloïse is prepared to be berated even more during her stay here. Especially with Marianne by her side. But she’s not thinking about Marianne right now.

“You say that won’t happen,” Suzie continues, focusing on the trees across the pool. “And that notion should be respected because that’s how you feel. Right now, at least. It’s always possible that you could change your mind.”

“I’m not going to.”

“But it’s possible! I’m not saying that you should get married or that you shouldn’t,” Suzie remains peaceable in tone. She’s a much calmer arguer than Héloïse these days. She shifts in her seat and leans to the side, facing Héloïse with a pointed finger. “You can never truly know with these things until they’re staring you right in the face.”

Héloïse nods, gesturing vaguely with her own hand. “And when Gio stares you in the face…”

A smile splits across Suzie’s face. Héloïse feels it too, a crack in her mask, stretching wide but momentary across her cheeks. She simmers the expression and watches Suzie nod with her giggling.

“I want to marry him!” she bursts, hands flung in the air. Blinking, the grin settles into something smaller. Sweeter. “Yes. I really do.”

She remains pensive a moment longer before sitting up straighter, crossing her ankles. “And anyway,” she sighs, “I’m thirty. I’m hardly young.”

Héloïse stares at her, alarmed. “Thirty is definitely young!”

Suzie hums. “Not according to my back pain.”

Héloïse rolls her eyes, preparing to argue, but deciding against it. This is her sister’s weekend. She can feel as ancient as her heart desires. Instead, Héloïse humours her, asking: “If thirty is old, then what is twenty-eight?”

Suzie clicks her tongue, and mimes clinking a wine glass in cheers. “Nearing the grave, dear sister.”

Héloïse snorts despite herself. They chat and recline. Héloïse shuts her eyes to combat the dipping sun and tries not to think about what defines young and old. When you stop being one and become the other.

After a while, Marianne emerges from the house, dressed. She and Suzie chat while Héloïse attempts to keep reading.

“Oh,” Marianne’s tone changes. She waits until Héloïse looks at her, and Héloïse catches a flicker of something on her lips. “I met your mother.”

Héloïse stares. “No,” she says.

Suzie whistles, low and long. “How’d it go?”

Marianne blinks in surprise at the pair of them. “Very well,” she states, as though it’s obvious. There’s no time to be baffled, though, as Marianne turns her head and nods at Héloïse. “She reminds me of you.”

Marianne goes back inside, leaving Héloïse glaring in disbelief and Suzie red-faced with laughter.

Great. So Marianne gets along better with her mother than Héloïse does. That’s wonderful. Not only that, but she manages to compare them.

Cool. That’s perfect. This is perfect. _Parfait._

\--

The children’s energy doesn’t make Héloïse feel any younger.

There are three of them, the two older brothers with a year between them, and the girl, the only child of Gio’s younger sister. They’re staying in the house on the top floor. Gio loves them, and they look at Suzie like she’s family. They seem to be scared of Héloïse, which is often the case when it comes to children, unfortunately.

But at dinner, the niece (Martina – a very formal name for a four-year-old girl) takes a liking to Sophie. She sits next to Sophie and asks her questions in a wispy tone of voice. “What’s your favourite dinosaur?” is one such question. Sophie struggles to answer. If Martina had asked Héloïse the same question, she would’ve answered “pterodactyl.” But Martina has no interest in Héloïse and instead hangs on every word from Sophie’s mouth. Sophie excuses herself to the bathroom more than once, and Héloïse stifles a smile, knowing how awkward Sophie can get around children. Hugo sits on Sophie’s other side, and watches his girlfriend with a shy smile, eyes soft and lingering.

Thankfully, due to Martina’s interrogation of Sophie as well as Gio’s family being much more extroverted and largely carrying the conversation (with the help of Suzie, likely the most social person in Héloïse’s family) nobody quite takes notice of Héloïse and Marianne. Marianne, who turned quiet once everybody sat down to eat. Héloïse has been distracted a number of times by the way she eats, which is spontaneous and fast. Héloïse takes her time with food, making a mental note of which bite looks the best and saving that for last, instead working backwards from what she objectively considers the least appealing part of the meal. When she was in school, a British boy called her “batshit” for eating like that, and Héloïse threw a piece of salami in his face.

Marianne’s eating manner makes Héloïse nervous. Her working jaw, chewing up the food and staring across the table, harsh and unblinking. Several times, she accidentally scrapes her knife or fork against the plate. It’s all rather grating. Héloïse bites her tongue.

Soon, the plates are cleared and the children are carted up to bed. The adults exhale and lower their voices. Sophie jokes about being released from Martina’s interrogation, though Hugo protests that it was “cute”. Suzie is telling a story from when Gio and she were teenagers, that Héloïse has heard many times before. Instead of listening properly, her mind wanders, and she tries to think of answers for any questions that might inevitably be thrown at Marianne and her.

But at the end of Suzie’s story, in which everybody is gushing and laughing, Marianne clears her throat. She stands. Her hair is mostly dry, but lies limp down her shoulders. “I’m going to leave you all a bit early tonight, I think. Not feeling my best.”

There’s a chorus of “ohh!” and ‘"do you need anything?”, which Marianne bats away with a smile. There are blueish bags under her eyes. “I just need a shower and a rest, I think. It’s been a long day, you know?”

“Well, it’s been amazing to meet you,” Suzie pipes up, much to the agreement of everyone. Which is perplexing to Héloïse. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

There are several “goodnights!” ringing out, and Marianne waves with a slender hand, edging her way around the table. It’s only when she slips past behind Héloïse’s chair that she realises.

“Wait,” Héloïse calls, more anxious than intended. She staggers up and off the chair and takes one step so she is stood before Marianne’s pliant expression. She blinks, waiting. The table is silent.

Héloïse thinks fast. She leans forward before she knows what she is doing. Marianne doesn’t react, not even tensing up. Héloïse avoids the mouth, veering to the side. Eyes fluttering shut, Héloïse kisses Marianne’s cheek. She smells faintly of chlorine. Héloïse finds herself unsure how long to remain there. She should have steadied herself a little better but it’s too late now. Héloïse thinks she is fine, but when pulling back to see Marianne’s glass eyes and firmly shut mouth, she feels dizzy. Maybe it’s the chlorine.

Héloïse takes the back of the chair in one hand, gripping tightly, eyes un-focusing. Héloïse is about to wish her goodnight, but thinks quickly and replaces it with a clumsy: “I’ll be up soon.”

Marianne hesitates for a time that could be unnoticeable to anyone else. Héloïse, though not quite able to look at her, catches what could be an attempted smile cross Marianne’s cheeks.

And then she’s gone. Héloïse manages to sit down again. She avoids everyone’s eyes, and to her intense relief, Hugo starts to tell a story. Héloïse tries her best to listen.

\--

When she goes up to her room she is not sure what to expect. What is the etiquette? How will it work, to share a bed with somebody? Not that Héloïse hasn’t platonically shared a bed before. She has, but this is different. Marianne isn’t a friend doing her a favour. She is a sworn enemy doing this because – well, her reasoning why is still unclear. A holiday to Milan? That must be it.

Héloïse stands outside the door to her room. Their room. Her throat feels scratchy when she thinks of that. Héloïse pulls once on her earlobe and then takes the handle, pushing down and opening it inwards.

Marianne is sitting on her side of the bed. She’s staring at her phone, brow furrowed. Her hair is in a towel. Wet again. Her hair is wet, she means. What?

Héloïse doesn’t say anything to alert Marianne. She shuts the door and goes to gather her mismatched pyjamas. Glancing up, Héloïse sees that Marianne is already changed for bed. A big black jumper and small grey shorts with… pineapples. In a pattern. Line drawings of pineapples. Does Marianne particularly like pineapples? Why does Héloïse find this so frustrating and perplexing? Why is she still staring?

Héloïse goes into their shared bathroom to change, where she takes several breaths before re-emerging. Marianne has moved up to the headboard on the right side. She is under the covers, the pineapple shorts hidden from view. The towel that was on her head is now discarded on the floor near the window. Héloïse stares and internally refuses to move it. Marianne can do that in the morning.

Marianne is not on her phone or reading a book. She’s staring at the ceiling. Héloïse tries to follow her eye-line, but there’s nothing up there besides some cracks. Not even a spider’s web.

Oh god. What does Héloïse feel coming on? It squirms in her chest and trembles all the way up her arms.

Until she bursts. “Marianne?”

Marianne remains fixated on the ceiling at first, as though she didn’t hear. But eventually looks away from the ceiling and blinks expectantly at Héloïse. She seems ticked off already, which is stupid. Because Héloïse only wants to ask –

“Are you okay?”

It comes out of her mouth and surprises them both. Marianne’s eyebrows raise for a moment before she blinks several times. Her hands twitch, folded on the duvet. “Am I…”

Héloïse quickly tries to play it off. “You said you were sick.”

“Oh,” Marianne nods. Then shakes her head.

Héloïse sort of wants to jump out the window.

But then Marianne opens her mouth, leaving her lips parted for an undecided moment before confessing: “I just don’t like lying.”

That awful squirming intensifies. Héloïse twists her feet on the floorboards. “It’s not a huge lie,” she says eventually. Which, in itself, is a lie.

“It feels very…” Marianne makes an uncertain gesture. “…disingenuous.” Pause, and then: “Obviously I’m not going to tell anyone, though. It’s fine.” Pause again. “Ignore me.”

She focuses intensely on the white duvet.

Héloïse should probably leave it there. But that wriggling mess has found its way to her gut. So she sucks her teeth and stares pointedly at the windowsill while speaking.

“If you feel uncomfortable,” Héloïse begins, slow-speaking. “I can tell them. You can go home. I’ll get over the embarrassment.”

Marianne makes a low sound in her throat. Héloïse forces her gaze back to the bed and sees to her utter shock that Marianne has a small, genuine smile on her face. Though she is still staring at the duvet, she says: “You’re sweet. But it’s okay. I think I’m enjoying myself, aside from the guilt.”

Héloïse hardly hears the latter half of the sentence. Marianne thinks she’s sweet? Was that said as an insult, maybe? Héloïse files that away. She can google the definition of ‘sweet’ later.

“Um,” Héloïse starts speaking again, maybe just to override her spluttering thoughts. “At some point, we should probably plan this out a bit more. Like,” she inhales and forces the words from her mouth. “Our relationship.”

Marianne sighs, pushing a straggly strand of hair from her face. “In the morning,” she dismisses. “I’m exhausted. Turn the light off.”

Héloïse is irked by her command. But she flicks the switch nonetheless, and the bedroom goes black. Héloïse feels her way back across the room, reaching the bed.

The bed. That Marianne lies on the right side of, staring at the ceiling. The window is looking really good right now.

But she sucks it up. And pulls back the duvet, crawling in and listening to the bed creak. Héloïse stays as far on her side as possible, lying stiffly with her back to Marianne.

The silence is heavy. Prickly, warm and awkward.

Marianne breaks it after maybe two minutes.

“Do you think we’ll need to like,” she pauses. “Kiss. Or anything?”

At first, Héloïse wonders if that was an intrusive thought. But the longer she leaves the question in the dark, unanswered, the bigger the pit grows and the more she realises that, oh, Marianne really asked that. Right now. Great.

Héloïse answers after maybe twenty seconds, in a croak. “Probably not.”

From the other end of the bed, Marianne swallows and expels her acknowledgement in a breath. “Okay.”

Héloïse squeezes her eyes shut and prays to a god she doesn’t believe in that she will wake up in the back garden, ten years old and being called for lunch. Back when marriage was as much of a fantasy as dragons or growing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter makes reference to Euripides’ Medea, Vellacott’s translation. The full quote is as follows: ‘The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love.’  
> But that play is about revenge, rage, and hubris, so. Don’t consider it foreshadowing for this fic.


	5. you never know where the hell you are

Héloïse’s dreams are tumultuous and nauseating. Something about a wedding and a fire and dark eyes on a pale face, swimming, swimming into view. She can’t breathe.

Once or twice, Héloïse wakes, breathless and too warm. She untangles herself from the duvet, shoving it to Marianne’s side. Marianne, who dozes, still and unbothered. Héloïse has no time to be irritated by this. Soon, she is clawed back under the hot, suffocating blanket of unhappy sleep.

\--

Héloïse’s eyes are stuck together. Reaching up, she picks at her eyelashes with one finger. She shifts her head on the pillow and can feel the knotted hair at the back of her head. When Héloïse pries her eyes open at last, she finds herself blinking at a pale ceiling with spiderwebbed cracks. The duvet is on the other half of the bed.

The other half of the bed. Just as Héloïse thinks of this, there is a low grunt, and movement. She counts to three and looks.

There is Marianne’s head and legs. Her middle is entirely clouded by puffy white sheets, which she is attempting to wrestle. Her legs, bare and long, twist about, and her neck and shoulders reveal themselves, as do her arms, pushing and shoving at the duvet. Héloïse lies perfectly still. Maybe if she doesn’t move, Marianne won’t see her.

Marianne eventually manages to claw her way free from the duvet, kicking it to the footboard. At this point, she is sitting up, hands splayed out behind her on the mattress. There is a moment of quiet before Marianne turns her head. Red-faced, dark-eyed and squinting. Her hair is a severe mess, thrown up at all angles. One curl sticks to the sweat on her forehead. Héloïse stares and stares until Marianne says: “Why didn’t you just throw the duvet off the bed?”

It takes some effort for Héloïse to remember how to blink. When she recalls, she blinks twice, concentrating each time on the open and close. “What?” she asks, dumbly.

Marianne sighs. She pushes herself up into a sitting position, legs crossed. There, she cracks her neck, rolling her head all around, mouth open and eyes shut. Marianne sighs in a manner that could be exasperation, but it also sounds – obviously, it’s not – it was just high-pitched, is all. Unintentionally so, Héloïse is sure. Héloïse, who is rather frozen and blank-minded at this moment.

Until Marianne’s shoulders sag and she rubs at her neck, pulling her hand back and looking at it. “I think I was nearly boiled alive. You threw the duvet at me in the middle of the night, I’m guessing?”

Once again, Héloïse can’t seem to speak. Marianne drops her hand and, passingly, her eyes roam over the whole of Héloïse, stretched across the bed. Definitely innocuous and innocent. Héloïse is sweating because of the heat and for no other reason.

She still hasn’t answered Marianne’s question. She can’t even really remember what it is. Marianne’s gaze returns to Héloïse’s face and settles there, mouth shut, and face pink with the warmth of this room. Hair an absolute mess. “Is your brain bad in the morning?” Marianne asks.

This is an easy out and Héloïse takes it. “Yes,” she says.

Marianne finally stops looking at her, moving her gaze across the rumpled sheets and nodding slowly. She clears her throat and moves, shuffling off the bed. When she’s standing, Marianne pushes a hand through her nest-like hair and says: “I’m having a shower.”

Héloïse is buzzing. “I’ll have one after you.”

Marianne does not look at her or say another word, instead walking around the bed to the door on the other side, leading into the bathroom. When she shuts the door, it takes Héloïse some seconds before remembering to breathe. She exhales into the room and thinks to look away from the door.

It’s only then that she remembers herself. Wedding. Bachelorette party. Suzie. Marianne – Marianne, who she doesn’t like. Right, they hate each other. Okay. It’s good to remember that, it’s important.

The shower starts running and humming through the walls. Héloïse lies there and, like a vision, she sees Marianne before her eyes, pulling off her jumper.

Héloïse almost lets out an audible: “No!” but manages to hook the word and wrestle it down, along with that disturbing image of Marianne – who, _Crisse,_ okay, no. No, no, certainly not. Héloïse screws her eyes shut which does not help in the slightest. Marianne’s legs, her bedhead-

She’s awful for this, really. Intrusive thoughts and the like. About Marianne, just her luck. Héloïse flushes beet red and drags a hand down her face, attempting to cool herself. Hot water rushes on the other side of the wall, but Héloïse is not thinking about who is stepping in there, rinsing and scrubbing and maybe even –

Oh my god, stop. Stop, actually stop. Héloïse forces herself up, still flushed in the face, and reaches over to her bag, where she pulls a book out at random (she finished the Euripides collection yesterday). Héloïse flips the cover around to reveal _Perfume,_ Patrick Süskind. She hasn’t started this one yet, knows little to nothing about it, though the tagline is a bit of a giveaway. _Parfait,_ a new world to be distracted by.

Except the cover is of a nude woman. Great. Good.

Héloïse quickly flicks past the first few pages to reach the beginning. She reads the first paragraph once, twice, three times, after continually realising that she is unable to take in the words. The shower is still running but Héloïse is _not_ listening.

After a little while, the rushing water cuts abruptly. Héloïse is barely past the third page at this rate, and can’t seem to forge on. When the door opens, she can’t help but look up at Marianne, who is wrapped neatly in a white towel, rolled up under her armpits. Her hair is mostly dry – she must have managed to keep it out of the water. It’s flattened a little but is still sticking up at the top. She walks through the room, around the end of the bed, not looking at Héloïse. Héloïse, who is really trying with everything she has to go back to reading. She must be in a sort of shock. Does seeing the person you hate in a towel unlock some level of paralysis?

Marianne is crossing the room to her side of the bed, and that’s when she turns her full body to face Héloïse, who just manages to jerk her head back and stare at one word in her book, which happens to be: _‘turmoil.’_ Very accurate. Héloïse’s face is burning.

“Are you…” from the corner of Héloïse’s eye, Marianne’s long, lithe arm raises through the air. There is a quiet sigh. “You said you were having a shower after me.”

She did say that. “Yes,” Héloïse agrees. But some seconds pass before she actually manages to put the book down on the bedside table and lift herself off the mattress. Héloïse does not look at or speak a word to Marianne while gathering some casual clothes to dress in. And when she shuts herself into the bathroom, she leans her head against the white, wooden doorframe.

She just needs to wake up. So Héloïse undresses and gets in the shower and tries not – no, she keeps an eye on her hands. Héloïse takes the shampoo, the soap. These walls are thin, she reminds herself. What would she want to be doing that for anyway? Héloïse tries not to think about it too hard, lathering soap in her hands. The hot water turns her body pink.

Héloïse makes it through the shower without doing anything stupid. She dons the outfit she hurriedly picked out in order to get out of the same room as towel-wearing Marianne. Oh, god, she won’t still be in a towel, will she? Héloïse waits nervously behind the door, pyjamas draped over one arm, and wet tendrils of hair cool against her neck. She swallows and opens the door, not to Marianne in a towel, but to Marianne fully dressed on the bed. Book in hand.

Except, for whatever reason, Marianne launches the book into the air when Héloïse opens the door. She scrambles and then calms, taking the book and shoving it under the duvet that Marianne has lain back across the bed. But Héloïse is quick and perceptive, and for the flash of time that the cover is visible, Héloïse sees that the book in question is not Marianne’s but her own. It’s Euripides.

Now. There’s the chance that Marianne was not reading Medea in particular, and rather another of Euripides’ plays, one of the many others in that collection. But Marianne’s mouth has been firmly glued shut and she is conducting a thorough examination of her right hand while completely ignoring Héloïse. Her cheeks are also slightly pink.

In Héloïse’s chest sparks triumph. Her eyes flit between Marianne and the duvet, where her book was just stuffed under. This is new. In all their arguments, neither has ever _convinced_ the other of their opinion. Except – until – has Héloïse? She feels giddy at the prospect. Ha! Héloïse won. She was right. She loves winning and being right.

She could boast. And oh, does she want to. But no. Héloïse will be gracious for once in her life. So, in a pleased tone of voice, all Héloïse says is: “We should probably show up for breakfast at the same time.”

\--

When they get downstairs and greet the family members that have woken up, (including Suzie, Gio, Gio’s sister and Hugo but not Sophie, who insisted on staying in bed a little while longer) Héloïse realises abruptly that she and Marianne had forgotten to discuss the intricacies of their… relationship. And, in a slight panic and rush of thought, Héloïse thinks to say something, and blurts: “Isn’t Marianne so cute in the mornings?”

Marianne chokes on a glass of water. When she has recovered, she changes the topic.

Héloïse supposes that, well. It’s not the biggest lie she’s ever told. Not that Marianne looks especially… she’s just. You know. She appears fine in the mornings. On this morning. Definitely not bad. Not painful to look at.

Not that Héloïse is looking at Marianne. She’s not.

\--

“So,” Suzie beams and wriggles her eyebrows at Héloïse, Sophie, and Marianne, palms flat on the small kitchen table. “Are we ready?”

Héloïse delivers her sister a blank stare. She is rinsing a glass in the sink. “For…?”

Sophie swats Héloïse, who doesn’t flinch. Marianne, shutting the dishwasher, turns around to face Suzie. “The bachelorette party, I’m guessing?”

Suzie gestures to Marianne with a grand flourish and head tilted. _“Thank_ you, Marianne. The only one who pays attention to anything around here.”

A quiet smile blooms on Marianne’s lips at the praise. Héloïse focuses hard on not rolling her eyes. She’s such a suck-up.

“I pay attention,” Sophie protests. She is nibbling on an orange segment, sat on the counter-top. “When are they arriving?”

Héloïse grabs a towel off the back of a wooden chair and starts to dry the glass. “Your friends,” she adds, just to show that she does pay attention and knows what’s going on some of the time.

Marianne tilts her head in the way she does when interest overcomes her. Again, Héloïse restrains an eye-roll. “They’re coming here, beforehand?” Marianne asks.

“They are,” Suzie confirms. She meets Marianne’s eyes and turns serious. “Their names are Via, Nanette, Etienne, Claude, Simone, and Panya – the maid of honour.” Which each name recounted, Suzie jabs a finger in the air.

Marianne takes a moment. “I’m not going to remember all that.”

Suzie hums in acknowledgement. “No, but I figured I’d brief you anyway. They’re all wonderful. Gio’s friends are arriving around the same time. We’ll head off for our respective parties around…” she glances at the old clock on the wall, which is and always has been three minutes slow. “Five.”

Marianne seems… not overwhelmed. Or underwhelmed. Whelmed? Is that a word. Either way, Marianne smiles and claims: “Sounds fun,” much to Héloïse’s bafflement.

“I’m glad. I think Héloïse would probably prefer to lie in bed all day and read,” Suzie pokes Héloïse in jest, though there’s a translucent layer of shade in her tone.

“My personality is made up of more than books, you know,” Héloïse defends herself. “I like your friends! And going out.”

There’s a pause before Marianne jumps in: “We do go out sometimes.” She hesitates, and then tacks on: “Together.”

We go out sometimes, together. Yes, that’s something couples do. “See?” Héloïse nods. She realises that she is still towelling the glass, even though it’s definitely dry now. She goes to place it on the counter. “I’m not that bad at social interaction, Suzie. I did manage to…”

She gestures weakly with the towel, which is still clutched in her fist.

“Get in a relationship,” finishes Sophie.

“Thank you. Yes.”

Suzie shrugs. _“Touché,”_ she says.

The quiet dithers only for a few moments before, from beyond the wall, the doorbell buzzes. Long and obnoxious. Suzie straightens, her eyes flashing pale and glittery as she twists towards the noise.

Héloïse cranes her neck, unease crawling up her spine, prickly and unpleasant. “They’re here already?”

“We’re not…” Marianne gestures to her outfit, a loose white t-shirt, and cloth shorts. Héloïse and Sophie are dressed similarly, not ready for guests.

Suzie turns back to them, batting her hand. She’s beaming. “They’ll hardly care. You can dress up later before we go out. Come and meet them first – I’ll bet it’s Etienne and Nanette, they’re always early…”

Suzie trails off, rushing through to the door out of the kitchen. Héloïse is about to follow when she hears: “Wait, wait, wait,” and turns to watch Sophie hop off the counter. She swallows what remains of the orange and places both hands on her hips. Her voice is low. “How much have you planned out?”

From the front of the house, a door swings inwards and there is a chorus of squeaky, excited greetings. Héloïse does not need to ask what Sophie means and purses her lips at the sudden realisation that Marianne and she have no background to their relationship and no ground rules. Héloïse glances over and gathers Marianne’s expression. She’s wincing.

Sophie huffs. “I figured as much. Well,” she strides forward between Héloïse and Marianne, reaching up to pat each on the shoulder. “There’s no time now. Just don’t act like you hate each other. Even if you do… whatever.”

Héloïse turns and watches Sophie disappear around the corner to go join the reunion. Dejected, Héloïse backs up against the counter, hoping that maybe she can faze through the wall and run off. She is still holding the towel in one hand.

There is a moment where they are both listening to the “How are you?” and “It’s been ages,” and “Look at that _ring,_ oh my-“ Héloïse is considering making a break for it before she hears Marianne say in a begrudging tone: “here.”

When she looks down, Marianne’s hand is outstretched. Héloïse stares at it blankly.

“Just for a moment,” Marianne says. It’s only then that Héloïse realises what she is offering. When Héloïse says nothing, Marianne elaborates. “Like I’m dragging you out to meet them. It seems like a… relationship thing.”

She too struggles to get that word out. But Marianne’s eyes are ever-insistent. She gives her outstretched hand a little shake.

Héloïse hesitates. She folds the towel and places it neatly on the counter behind her. Purposely and painstakingly so. It’s only then that she turns around and reaches out, taking Marianne’s lithe hand firmly in her own.

Marianne has cold fingers. Her thumb runs it’s way, bump by bump, over Héloïse’s knuckles. They fit together, and all at once, it is the release of a long-held breath and a tightening of Héloïse’s chest. Like a corset being laced up from behind.

Héloïse is so distracted by this for whatever reason that she forgets that they’re supposed to be going anywhere. She just stands there and stares at Marianne’s hand in her own, and at her own hand in Marianne’s. It’s only when they hear: “Héloïse, Marianne, come out of hiding!” from Suzie at the front of the house, that the pair look up and meet each other’s eyes. Marianne’s mouth is open just a crack, and her whole face is shining.

But all at once she stops glowing and shuts her mouth, thin-lipped. Without a word, Marianne gives an insistent tug at Héloïse’s hand and pulls her along. Héloïse feels that familiar singe of irritation. Familiar and welcome, over whatever it is that thrums, unhelpful and hot, behind her cheeks and ears and chest.

Nonetheless, she allows herself to be dragged away, along a corridor, following Marianne. And, when they’re in sight of the guests, Marianne glances around at Héloïse with a convincing grin. Has Héloïse seen her grin before? Her gums are pink, eyes alight. Dazzling and rare. If Héloïse didn’t know better, she might have thought the smile was real.

It’s quickly over, with Héloïse’s hand abruptly dropped in favour of it being shaken by Nanette and Etienne, who are perfectly lovely and remember Héloïse, and Héloïse likes these two. Etienne with his impressive cheekbones and Nanette with her shock of pink hair.

And yet, all while talking with them, she is infuriatingly and incredibly aware of Marianne, stood close beside her. Arms brushing.

Hands cold and pale as marble. Heavy like a heart, and holding strong and certain. Holding, holding to Héloïse.

\--

Soon the guests have all arrived. Time and time again, Suzie gestures to the pair of them and says: “My sister, Héloïse, and her girlfriend, Marianne.”

My sister, Héloïse, and her girlfriend, Marianne. Héloïse and Marianne. Marianne and Héloïse. Héloïse tastes the words silently on her tongue and each time they fizz all the way down her throat, like vitamin tablets dropped into a glass of water. She swallows again and again.

Héloïse has met them all before, though some she hasn’t seen in over a year. Marianne looks each in the eye as she shakes their hand. She smiles and repeats their names each time, almost to herself. They like her, instantly, Héloïse can tell. Why do people take such an immediate liking to Marianne? Héloïse thought she was annoying. Thinks, thinks she is annoying. She is. She is infuriating with bad taste in literature, and this is proved when Marianne and Claude gush about _The Catcher in the Rye,_ which Héloïse has a firm dislike towards. However, she swallows her opinion and instead keeps up a conversation with Via and Panya, managing to ignore Marianne for some time despite being sat right next to her.

Inevitably, though, later in the afternoon, Simone clears her throat and asks: “So how did you two meet?” With a nod towards Héloïse and Marianne.

Here we go. Héloïse opens her mouth –

“Oh, we work together.” Héloïse did not say that. Instead, Marianne is sat up, smiling easily. She is beside Héloïse on the couch, hands gathered neatly on her lap. She doesn’t look at Héloïse, just speaking on like this is natural, unpractised. “At a book shop,” she elaborates. Marianne throws one hand up in the air and shrugs. “I met her there when I started a few months ago. Héloïse was so intelligent that I was annoyed by it and we argued a lot, but I was also very attracted to her arrogance.”

There are a few laughs, but Héloïse can’t manage to make a single noise. She is fixated firmly on Marianne’s face. Marianne, who said she didn’t like lying. Who is telling this story with the utmost conviction in tone.

Marianne continues. “And she was obviously just melting over me the whole time, you know.”

More laughter. And this time, unwittingly, it bursts out from Héloïse as well. In embarrassment, mostly, but also from giddiness. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth and pretends to hide her face. All Héloïse does in response is shrug, afraid to add anything in case she ruins the story. But one thing comes to mind, a little daring but – but she can manage it.

Héloïse reaches over and puts a hand on Marianne’s leg. What could pass as a soft acknowledgement. A sweet moment. Hopefully, nobody notices how the hair at the back of Héloïse’s neck bristles, or how she doesn’t look at Marianne. Can’t look at Marianne.

The subject changes around them, and Héloïse takes her hand away, feeling the soft skin and leg hairs slip away. Marianne doesn’t acknowledge it and by the time Héloïse gathers the courage to look at her face, Marianne is smiling at a joke that Sophie just told. Her cheeks are pink. Which is because of the heat. Probably.

\--

Soon five o'clock is approaching. Panya is ready to take charge of the bachelorette party, and Gio is heading out with his friends, who have arrived in the meantime. A few people head upstairs to change, Héloïse and Marianne included.

Once the door is shut to their room, and Héloïse is rustling through to find her outfit, Marianne pipes up: “The story was good, right?”

Héloïse cranes her neck. Marianne is combing her hair. Dark and silky, threaded through the bristles. Héloïse gives a slight shake of her head. “What?”

Marianne meets her eyes, moving the hairbrush around to the back of her head. “About how we met,” she elaborates. “I based it in reality so it sounded more realistic.”

In reality? Héloïse stirs.

Marianne quickly realises her error. “Like, you know,” she rushes, pulling the hairbrush down to her lap. Something ticks in her eyes. “That we work together and argue.”

Oh. “Yes,” Héloïse manages, at last, a tad too loud and gruff. She nods. “Yeah, that was good.” Pause. “You don’t feel too bad about lying?”

Marianne shrugs, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. Héloïse only realises that she is looking at Marianne’s mouth when Marianne moves away, sinking down to the floor on the other side of the bed. There is the sound of a suitcase unzipping. “I’m changing in here,” she states firmly. “You take the bathroom.”

Such immovable authority. Héloïse loves that.

Wait. No, she doesn’t. What? She finds it annoying, obviously.

Obviously.

And yet Héloïse does as she’s told. She gathers her outfit and makes her way to the bathroom. For a moment, she lingers at the door. Something stirs within her chest, uneasy and unfamiliar. Wriggling.

Héloïse turns and asks, as calmly as she can, which is not very: “Marianne?”

Marianne’s head pokes up from the other side of the bed, where she is kneeling on the floor.

Héloïse can’t believe she’s about to say this. She inhales through her nose. One, two, three. “Sorry for putting my hand on your knee. And for what I said at breakfast, earlier. Like, about you, looking…” she draws circles in the air with her hand, lips pursed, cheeks heating up.

Marianne could make fun of her. But instead, she blinks. Pushes a strand of hair from her face, fingers trailing along her forehead. “Oh, no. Don’t worry.”

Her tone is genuine. Héloïse relaxes a little but not by much. She shifts from foot to foot in the bathroom doorway. “So in terms of like,” she grits her teeth and chokes it out: “our PDA.”

Marianne’s eyebrows go up. She is listening.

Héloïse inhales. “How much are you comfortable with? We probably won’t need to do much, but just in case, I suppose.”

Marianne considers this. For some time. Leaving Héloïse tight-lipped and fidgety. God, just _answer._ She’s dying over here.

Though, when Marianne does respond, Héloïse sort of wishes that she hadn’t asked at all. “Anything,” says Marianne.

Anything. “Anything,” repeats Héloïse dumbly.

Marianne gives it a second’s more thought, and adds: “Well not like, having sex in front of everyone.” Awful pause. “Or at all.” Marianne’s cheeks are darkening and she ducks her head down, looking at her open suitcase and murmuring: “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Héloïse’s tongue is made of lead.

Marianne coughs. Rubs two fingers at the hollow between her collarbones. “But, uh. Yeah.” She looks up, across the room, and meets Héloïse with a firm nod. Very formal. “Whatever we need to do to make them believe it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title this time around is a reference to this quote from The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Sallinger:   
> “That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.”


	6. don't they know?

Héloïse dresses in the bathroom. Her jumpsuit is black and tight and for a moment she’s afraid that she won’t be able to pull up the zip on her own but she manages it, thankfully. She spends about two minutes trying to decide: lipstick or no lipstick? It hovers in her hand, nearly meeting her mouth several times. She thinks, unwittingly, automatically, to ask Marianne’s opinion. But quickly bats that away because it makes no sense. Why would Héloïse care for Marianne’s input? Who would she even be wearing lipstick ­for – she’s not trying to impress anyone. It would probably stain the glass she’ll be drinking out of anyway.

Héloïse puts it on. Presses her lips together and stares at herself in the mirror, fingers drumming on the edge of the sink. Red, twitching mouth. Hair tied back. Sure.

Héloïse’s lingers by the door. Fingertips smooth against the handle. She inhales, counts to three, and walks through.

Marianne isn’t in the room. Oh. Right. This irks Héloïse. Shouldn’t they have gone down together, for appearance’s sake? Héloïse grabs a shoulder bag, rolling her eyes to herself. She goes.

Héloïse hears the chatter in the corridor as she takes the staircase. She raises her chin just as she swings right towards the hallway that leads to the front door. Where the members of the bachelorette party are brimming from wall to wall. Suzie is the first one she sees, mid-laugh. She’s wearing doll-arm earrings and combat boots. Sophie is leaning against the wall, arms folded over her stomach. Her hair is down for once, reaching her waist. She looks lovely. As does Hugo, stood next to Sophie. Everyone does.

Marianne is there too. Obviously. Héloïse sees her but doesn’t look properly until they are close. Until Marianne notices her in return.

She is wearing. A dress. Héloïse has not seen Marianne in a dress before. Or maybe she has, and she forgot. It’s definitely possible that she would forget such a trivial thing. It’s just that tonight – well – Marianne’s face is bare of makeup, save for… for glitter? On her cheeks, and on her temples. Her dress, yes, it’s there. Silvery. Form-fitting and long. Low cut and – it’s really low cut, actually. Héloïse notices as Marianne is turning that her back is exposed. But then, she is turned completely, facing Héloïse. She has a coat folded over one arm.

Héloïse notices that she is staring and quickly tells herself off. And yet it takes her a moment to readjust herself. She swallows, straightens. Meets Marianne’s eyes. Only to find that Marianne isn’t unnerved by Héloïse’s wandering eyes. In fact, Marianne herself is distracted. Gaze drifting. Mouth open a crack, hardly noticeable.

Héloïse waits there for Marianne to be finished. She’s not quite sure what else to do. Héloïse can’t help but watch as she observes. Marianne’s eyes are keen, piercing. Héloïse feels that Marianne can see through the fabric, through her skin. To the inner workings that she herself is struggling to understand.

Finally, Marianne meets her eyes again. She appears to be steady until she opens her mouth and her jaw trembles. “You,” she begins and nods once. Doesn’t finish her sentence.

A humming noise comes from the other side of the room. Panya, leaning her head on Nanette’s shoulder, smiles and says: “You two are adorable.”

There’s a gushing of laughter and general agreement. Héloïse flushes and murmurs some sort of thanks. She glances back at Marianne, who is blinking. She swallows and nods, rather serious. “You look good.”

Marianne doesn’t say anything. Thankfully, no-one notices how not-smooth the pair of them are being, except for Sophie, who rolls her eyes overdramatically.

“Are we good to go?” Suzie looks all around the room.

There’s a pause. And then: “Wait, I need to pee.” Sophie announces, pushing away from the wall.

“Again?” Suzie widens her eyes.

“Shut up,” Sophie calls without turning around, arising laughter. Before she disappears up the stairs, she adds: “My bladder is small. Hugo and Héloïse can second this.”

Héloïse and Hugo instantly, awkwardly lock eyes. They shrug at each other. Héloïse can’t say much about Sophie’s bladder.

So, the party is left to chatter. Héloïse is standing opposite Marianne, who has turned very quiet. Staring at her shoes. Doc Martins.

Her cheeks are shimmering in silver and pink. Héloïse tilts her head, trying to catch Marianne’s eyes. When she does, Héloïse points to her own cheek in an act of mirroring. “Glitter?” she asks, rather soft in tone.

Marianne stares and then remembers. “Oh,” she touches her cheek and gives a short-lived, embarrassed smile. “We all have it. Suzie –“

“Loves glitter,” Héloïse nods, understanding all at once. She throws her sister a pair of raised eyebrows. “Yes. We still find it in-between the floorboards of our family home every Christmas.”

“Did you get some?” asks Suzie, brushing over Héloïse’s dig. She starts scrabbling around in her purse.

“Do I have a say in this matter?” Héloïse watches Suzie produce the bottle of cosmetic glitter.

“Not at all,” Suzie says, approaching Héloïse. Only, she doesn’t hand the bottle to Héloïse. Instead, she gives it to Marianne without a second thought. She backs up to the other side of the room and re-joins a conversation with Via and Simone.

There is a spot of silence where neither can quite look at each other. Héloïse counts to three in her head and looks at Marianne, whose lips are pursed.

“Yeah. Well,” Marianne stumble over her words. She holds the bottle away from her like it’s a piece of food she isn’t keen on. “Sophie did mine. It’s difficult to do your own without a mirror.”

“Right.”

“I might not be good at it. I don’t really know how.”

“Well, we’ve established that I don’t really have a say, so,” Héloïse isn’t sure why she’s not protesting. She gives herself a slight shake and picks absent-mindedly at the nail on her little finger. Marianne stands there, eyes wide.

Pause.

“Are you going to…” Héloïse gestures jerkily to her own face.

“Oh. Yes,” Marianne stammers, bending her head and unscrewing the lid of the glitter. Héloïse watches her intake a breath. “I have to use my fingers, if that’s okay.”

 _“Oui._ Sure,” Héloïse agrees for some reason. Why is she agreeing? She blames Marianne for this. Except she doesn’t, really. She’s not mad about it, not in a proper way. Which is… which doesn’t make sense.

Marianne dips one finger into the glitter bottle. She looks up again, fixating on Héloïse’s cheek. All at once, she is stepping forward, unimaginably closer. With two – two fingers, she reaches up without hesitation and begins to gently dab at Héloïse’s cheek.

Héloïse remains still. She is holding her breath, which is probably unnecessary. But she can’t quite remember how to breathe and is afraid that if she tries she will make a sound upon exhale. That would be too much. She keeps it in her throat for as long as possible.

Marianne is still close. Enough so that Héloïse can see her dark eyelashes, her concentrated stare. All the intricate colours of her skin. The parts under her eyes which are purple and blue. Her nose is pink, as are her ears. Her mouth is open, teeth white, and parted. She looks away each time she needs more glitter, returning abashedly to the bottle. When she turns to the other cheek, Marianne nearly meets Héloïse’s gaze. And Héloïse, like a fool, shuts her eyes. And then swallows, because she realises that she has committed, and now she can’t open them again. Which is probably for the best, because having Marianne stood so close to her should be awkward. It should be.

She still feels the dotting of glitter along her cheekbone, and Marianne’s soft fingertips. Héloïse hears the little exhales, and even feels them grace her nose, her lips, her chin.

When Marianne pulls away initially, Héloïse keeps her eyes shut, unsure if it’s over. Unsure if she wants it to be over.

“Finished,” Marianne confirms. Héloïse opens her eyes and watches Marianne screw the lid back on the bottle, handing it back to Suzie, who glances between them with a smile.

Héloïse feels a burning in her chest at the loss. And then scolds herself for it. She’s touch-starved, that’s all. That’s all.

Marianne returns her gaze, nearly shy. She is stood back again, putting a noticeable gap between them. A quiet smile blooms across Marianne’s cheeks. “It looks good,” she says, rather decidedly and in a way that makes it difficult to argue.

“Thank you,” says Héloïse.

They can’t look at each other. For whatever reason. Héloïse thinks not to question it.

\--

Héloïse wasn’t exactly sure what had been planned for the bachelorette party. She is not surprised that it ends up consisting of visiting each and every club and bar available to them, and she’s not really complaining either. It’s sort of fun. Sophie and Hugo split off and chat separately, as do Nanette and Etienne, who have been together for five years now. Héloïse and Marianne take this as a grateful hint to not have to be glued at the hip all the while. Though during some intervals Héloïse remembers and nervously puts a hand to Marianne’s exposed back while they lean against the bar and listen to a story. Marianne takes her hand at one point, and almost absent-mindedly plays with Héloïse’s fingers. It is very irritating and distracting and Héloïse can hardly concentrate on the conversation she is having with Claude. Héloïse tries not to think about what Marianne said earlier: anything. Anything? She catches herself staring at Marianne’s sharp collarbones while a few of them smoke outside a club. It’s embarrassing. She tilts her head back and expels smoke from her throat, eyes shut.

Héloïse doesn’t drink that much. Marianne seems to not have similar reservations. Though Héloïse doesn’t see her with much alcohol, she must have had a fair bit, because as the evening drags she slowly becomes bolder. Linking arms with Héloïse as they wander down the path to the next bar. She even laughs at one of Héloïse’s jokes. Like, really laughs, mouth open and eyes scrunched. Héloïse knows she’s funny, but she didn’t think it was – well, she didn’t think it was worthy of a Marianne laugh. Not that a Marianne laugh means anything special. It’s just rare.

At one point, Héloïse is telling a story to the group about having been mistaken for a boy when she was a child. Marianne is stood beside her, leaning against the bar. Inexplicably, just as Héloïse is building to the story’s hilarious climax, Marianne reaches out with two fingers and pushes a strand of hair from Héloïse’s face. She runs her fingers along Héloïse’s forehead, brushing the hair behind her ear gently. Her expression is still and serious when she does it, and Héloïse watches her steady eyes and the glitter on her cheeks. After what seems like both some time and no time at all, Marianne pulls back and meets Héloïse’s eyes, blinking, wide and unassuming. “Carry on.”

Héloïse does not remember when she stopped speaking. Her mouth is open but there is no sound coming out. She clears her throat and avoids the raised eyebrows and humming from the group. It takes her a moment to remember where she was in the story, and after that the flow is not the same. She blames Marianne wholeheartedly and pointedly ignores her for some time after that. Only because of Héloïse’s annoyance, and not because she is struggling to meet Marianne’s eyes. For reasons she is yet to place. Whatever.

Marianne’s boldness reaches its peak when, near the end of their journey through the village, Suzie leads them to a packed karaoke bar. Of course, they have made a reservation and booked a private room. Héloïse does not have a bad singing voice but she does get stage fright, and thankfully Suzie knows this and doesn’t push too hard. Marianne, however, is more easily bent to the will.

“Comeon!” Panya’s words become slushy and strung together. She braces herself with one hand on the white leather couch and leans towards Marianne, who is sat on Héloïse’s left. “I know you’d begood. I can tell, youhavea singer’s… face! Mouth. Am I wrong?”

Marianne opens her mouth to defend herself, but after a blubbering string of nonsense she admits: “I… okay.”

That’s all it takes. There is loud cheering as Marianne sets her drink down and wanders over to pick a song. Héloïse lets out a low whistle amidst the cheers, maybe just to get back at Marianne for earlier. Marianne pointedly avoids Héloïse’s eyes and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Do Stromae!” Via suggests far too loudly, and there is collective laughter. “Papaoutai!”

“Hey, we’re the ones with daddy issues, okay?” Suzie slaps a hand on Héloïse’s shoulder.

“Speak for yourself,” Héloïse deflects, and glances at Marianne, eyeing her reaction. Not that it matters, it’s just, well – Marianne does not know this piece of information. It’s unimportant, but. Well, it doesn’t seem to matter, because Marianne seems to have not heard Suzie at all, and is intently focused on her song selection. The silvery dress clings to her. It is still very low cut, which is fine because Héloïse is looking at the karaoke machine now.

Finally, Marianne picks her song. She hides her face as she takes the mini-stage, twisting her feet. In comes the music, which is painfully, recognisably country.

“Jolene!” Hugo shoots up, eyes alit and fist in the air. Everybody laughs.

“Jolene,” repeats Héloïse. Did Marianne do this just to annoy her?

The tipsy giggling continues until Marianne starts to sing. Which is when everybody falls silent, and then begin to whoop. Because. She’s. Well, she’s good, isn’t she? Belting the lyrics, one hand on her chest, grinning between words. Pronunciation perfect. Héloïse knows nothing about music or singing but she… this is…

Okay. Admittedly? She likes this.

It’s so obvious that Héloïse likes this, that by the time Marianne has finished and everybody has given a mock standing-ovation, Simone lets out a humming noise and raises her eyebrows at Héloïse. “Thoughts, Héloïse?”

Everybody notices Héloïse’s face and begins to laugh and coo. Héloïse can’t see herself, of course. But she finds herself unable to form a coherent sentence. Marianne catches Héloïse’s eye and the corners of her mouth flutter.

Yes. This is. She liked that. Héloïse is not that stupid – she can admit this, that she finds Marianne’s singing… nice. And pretty and impressive and very…

“I might like that song now,” she admits, smiling. Too tipsy to reel back the honesty.

Marianne laughs and hides her blushing, glimmering face. Behind it all, she likely thinks that Héloïse was saying that for show. Héloïse won’t correct her. It hardly matters anyway.

On the way out the door, Panya, who Héloïse knows the best of all Suzie’s friends, elbows her without a hint of subtlety and loudly whispers: “You are getting _railed_ toni-“

Via saves the day by yanking Panya away by the sleeve of her dress. It’s too late though; Héloïse is lit up like a fire lantern. Marianne graciously pretends to not have heard and they do not look at each other as they head back.

\--

Yes, back to the house. Even though it’s not that late. Because Suzie loudly proclaims that the bachelorette and bachelor’s parties are joining together at the house. “Because,” she proclaims, slurring her words a little, “The whole concept of having ‘one last night of freedom’ is stupid.”

When they are wandering back up the winding roads to the house, Héloïse and Suzie fall to the back, when Héloïse argues: “The whole concept of a marriage is stupid.”

She means it in jest. Mostly. Whatever - she’s trying to bury her bitter feelings tonight. Suzie laughs, coarse but not disingenuous.

They walk on, the others chatting together up ahead. Marianne is speaking to Hugo, who is gesturing his large hands dramatically. She has put her coat on. It accentuates her shoulders.

Suzie asks, voice low but unapologetic: “Does Marianne want to get married?”

Héloïse doesn’t have the energy or the blood alcohol concentration to think of a clever way out of this question. “I don’t know.” And, upon seeing Suzie’s incredulous stare: “Don’t look at me like that! We’re not exactly serious…”

Suzie snorts, shaking her head.

Héloïse stares at her. “What?”

Suzie doesn’t answer right away. She too is looking over at Marianne, who has her hand raised to her mouth mid-laugh. “You brought her to a wedding,” Suzie explains slowly, as though Héloïse doesn’t know. “My wedding! That’s not third-date material.”

As far as Héloïse is concerned, it’s zero date material.

“And anyway,” Suzie begins but fails to continue for what seems like eternity. When she finally looks at Héloïse, Suzie shakes her head, pleased. “I see the way you look at her. You can’t fool anyone, Héloïse.”

Héloïse doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. She tries to work herself up to vehement denial but can’t quite manage it. It must be the alcohol that is stirring her heart.

\--

They’re back first. Gio and his troop come in the door eight minutes later. Suzie races over and throws her arms around him. He swings her around the room and they clatter against the wall, refusing to let go of each other and laughing. Blind to everybody around them for a moment. It could be the alcohol or it could be love or a dangerous concoction of both. Héloïse rolls her eyes with a smile and desperately tries to ignore the burning in her gut; the flames that lick and whine and hiss: _I want that, I want that._ Not quite jealousy, but pining. Old habit. It only comes out when she’s drunk. She restrains herself from the urge to take a beer out of the fridge.

The niece and nephews have gone (with their parents, of course) to stay at their home in the city for the night while the party rages. And, oh, the party does rage. Food is ordered. People leap, fully clothed, into the swimming pool. Everybody is shouting over the loud music that is playing, and some guests dance in the living room where the speakers are. Héloïse joins in and has an inordinate amount of fun until she is told that somebody has thrown up on a deckchair out the back, and Héloïse decides she’s too old for this.

Not that she’s old. She’s got time, she’s got time.

For what? She’s not making any sense. Héloïse drains a glass of water and it sticks, clammy, to the back of her throat. No longer dancing, but side-lined, she feels as though she has forgotten something.

Héloïse is sober enough, though, to escape upstairs promptly when there’s a knock at the door and it’s a stripper. A male stripper. Not that she’d be particularly interested if the stripper was a woman; that whole business makes her nervous. Héloïse wonders, as she clumsily climbs the stairs to go hide in the bathroom for a little while, what Gio thinks of the stripper being here for his fianceé. Does he mind? Did he order the stripper? Is he getting one too? This all seems of moderate interest to Héloïse until she turns at the top of the stairs and sees Marianne leaned against the wall.

Her dress is like starlight. Some of the glitter has come off her face. She looks quite 1920s in that outfit, or at least what Héloïse knows of 1920s fashion, which isn’t much. She is looking at Héloïse, half-lidded. She puts her phone away.

If Héloïse wasn’t quite so tipsy she might think to brush past Marianne, excusing herself to the bathroom. Because right now there is nobody there to witness their exchange, and she can act as she feels. But she isn’t thinking straight, and instead wanders over and leans against the wall opposite Marianne. The corridor is thin and this is a little impractical. Probably a fire hazard. But she doesn’t move.

Marianne wears an expectant expression. Or maybe it’s because she’s drunk. Her eyes are wide and overly alert, as though trying to feign concentration and steadiness.

Héloïse isn’t sure how long they stand there before she thinks of something to say. “You sing?”

It’s an understatement. Whatever came from Marianne’s throat was not song; it was hypnosis.

Marianne, though, raises her eyebrows. There are bags beneath her eyes, like quick strokes from a watercolour brush. “Yes.”

Héloïse can’t think where to look, so she shuts her eyes for a moment. She opens them, only to say: “I didn’t know that about you.”

Marianne makes a low noise in her throat. “I didn’t know you had daddy issues.”

It’s a quip, so casual and blatant that Héloïse’s immediate reaction is to laugh, but she holds the noise back and swallows it. First, she’s impressed by Marianne’s nerve. And then she’s furious, because how – why would she mention that? It could be – is a sore spot, surely. She was listening at the karaoke bar. Eavesdropping again! She is on the verge of biting Marianne’s head off when Héloïse settles, suddenly, and is simply confused.

“Is he a…” Marianne considers her options. She dances a hand in the air and comes out with, “ _Tête de noeud_ ?”

Despite herself, a smile crosses Héloïse’s face. A cloud’s reflection passing by a puddle. Soon she is inhaling through her nose and trying to think of a coherent response. “Yes.” Pause. “Suzie has it worse than I do. I don’t remember him that well.”

Marianne is not done. “Did she want him at the wedding?” she hesitates. Elaborates. “To give her away.”

Héloïse snorts, both because the notion is ridiculous and because she can’t believe she is about to willingly answer these questions from Marianne. “He owns no part of her,” Héloïse tilts her head back against the wall, hearing the dull thump. “Maman is walking her down the aisle, if that’s what you mean. She’s the one who actually raised us.”

Marianne nods. She seems satisfied but then squints. Not at Héloïse, but over her shoulder. Héloïse checks but there is nothing to see, and it is while she is following Marianne’s eye-line that Marianne asks: “You’re a bridesmaid?”

Héloïse turns her head to Marianne, who has her eyes shut now. Héloïse can tell she’s still listening. “Suzie talked me into it.”

“You don’t want to be one,” Marianne says it like she’s the first to discover this truth.

Héloïse rolls her eyes while Marianne’s eyes are closed. She waits but Marianne does not continue. Héloïse is beginning to wonder if she has fallen asleep when, downstairs, the speakers start playing a familiar, melancholy tune. There are a few: ‘Ahh!’s from the floor below. This is what causes Marianne’s eyes to open. She lurches her head forward, suddenly wide awake, and says, wistfully: “This song is on my wedding playlist. How fitting.”

Héloïse can’t restrain herself from asking. “You have a wedding playlist? Like, of songs?”

Marianne swivels her head in slow surprise. “Don’t you?”

Héloïse thinks about this. “I have a funeral playlist,” she recalls. She made it when she was twenty-three and hasn’t added anything to it in about two years.

Marianne smiles and looks at her shoes. “Of course you do,” she says, nearly a murmur.

What does that mean?

They stand together another moment. Marianne begins to sway, humming along. _“It’s the end of the world,”_ she sings quietly to herself. Héloïse can only watch.

Marianne seems to make a decision and pulls out her phone. “Here. I’ll show you the songs.”

“On your wedding playlist?”

Marianne nods. Héloïse finds, to her shock, that she is interested to know. She brushes this aside for the time being.

Marianne straightens up, eyes glued to her phone screen. “Here,” she sounds pleased and begins to list. “Edith Piaf, obviously. Mademoiselle K. Abba. La Femme. A bit of Hozier.”

“Who?”

Marianne unbends her head and stares. “Hozier.” Pause. “You don’t know him?”

Héloïse shrugs. Marianne widens her eyes in genuine horror and shakes her head. “So your taste in music is shit, I take it?”

“That’s not fair,” Héloïse protests, but Marianne is already distracted. She taps once on her phone and holds it in the air between them. Héloïse strains to listen, but the commotion and speakers from downstairs make it impossible. “I can’t hear it.”

Marianne doesn’t take this as a sign to give up. Instead, she steps closer to Héloïse, so that their shoes touch. Marianne outstretches her arm and holds the speaker aloft by Héloïse’s ear. She tilts her head at Héloïse. Marianne smells of cognac and sweat. It’s not a pleasant scent, but when it sticks to the roof of Héloïse’s mouth, she leaves it there and stews in it, feeling it burn in her nostrils. Marianne’s peers. She’s unbearable. Héloïse angles her ear into the phone and listens.

It’s nice. She might like it if she could listen properly, and manages to tell Marianne this after remembering how to speak. Marianne doesn’t step back after this, and instead plays another song, holding it to Héloïse’s ear each time and asking if she’s heard it. Héloïse laughs when she hears Lady Gaga’s _Bad Romance_ , and Marianne looks at their shoes, which have become slotted together. Just a little.

“Here’s the one that was playing downstairs,” Marianne says after a moment. She holds the phone up again and Héloïse hears the wistful, twinkling tune.

“Why that one though?” Héloïse asks after a moment. “Isn’t it about a woman whose partner doesn’t love her anymore? I thought a wedding playlist would have romantic songs.”

Marianne considers this. “I have trouble attributing love songs to myself,” she admits, slow and considerate. Not looking at Héloïse properly. “It feels disingenuous when…”

Marianne hesitates but then waves the notion away. She takes the phone back from Héloïse’s ear. But doesn’t step back.

Love songs. Weddings. Héloïse’s throat is scratchy. She hears herself ask: “So, you want to get married?”

Marianne looks up, mouth cracked open. “What?”

Héloïse stares. “You have a wedding playlist. You must want to get married.”

Marianne returns the gaze. “You have a funeral playlist. Do you want to die?”

She puts her phone away and folds her arms, awaiting a response from Héloïse, who is thrown.

Eventually, Héloïse gathers a defence. “A funeral is inevitable,” she points out.

Marianne shrugs in a mocking manner. “Not if nobody holds one for you.”

Héloïse’s mouth opens and shuts. “Excuse me?”

“Oh god,” it’s as though Marianne has only just heard herself. She places a hand over her mouth and returns Héloïse’s shocked stare. “That was too far.” She’s laughing, though. Unsuccessfully trying to smother the sound. Fluty and harsh at once. She shakes her head, tears brimming. “No, I’m joking! I’m drunk.”

“Wow, okay,” Héloïse shakes her head and puffs out a breath, feigning resignation. “Now I don’t need a funeral playlist _or_ a wedding playlist, I suppose.”

“Don’t say that!” Marianne is still laughing but regains momentary balance to correct Héloïse. “I’ll come to your funeral.”

Héloïse tilts her head, unable to hold her smile back any longer. “Is that a threat?” A grin blooms on her face when Marianne shakes her head vehemently, tears of laughter shining in her explosive eyes. “And bold of you to assume I die first…”

In her drunken fit of laughter, Marianne stumbles. Héloïse reaches out, instinctive, and takes her by the – by the waist. She meant to go for arms but ended up here, and now it seems too awkward to let go. So she holds fast, fingers curling around Marianne’s middle. The fabric of her dress is sleek and loose, bunching in Héloïse’s grasp. Marianne reaches up to take Héloïse’s shoulders. Héloïse’s laughter got caught in her throat, so now it’s only Marianne who’s still attempting to smother her giggles. She is grinning with her teeth, and has regained balance, but doesn’t let go of Héloïse’s shoulders.

“You’re kind of funny, you know,” says Marianne, low and – and something else, that Héloïse cannot quite pick out. Marianne is not looking at Héloïse’s eyes, but staring lower – at Héloïse’s chin, maybe? Or at – but that wouldn’t make sense.

Héloïse becomes suddenly, awfully aware of the shapes her mouth makes when she speaks. “You’re wasted,” she says and thinks of how chapped her lips feel. “That’s probably helping.”

Marianne makes a noise of amusement. “I’m not that drunk,” she says. Sober-tongued and serious.

Héloïse doesn’t feel drunk anymore. She is buzzing.

They hold on.

Somebody throws themselves up the stairs, scrabbling at the walls as they pull themselves along. Marianne drops her hands from Héloïse’s shoulders and stands back to allow the small, mousy thing – Sophie, of course – to rush by. She is green in the face, hand to mouth. Sophie pushes her way through to the bathroom, and the sound that emerges seconds later is unpleasant and familiar. Héloïse and Marianne share a look, but quickly drop their individual gazes to the floor. Héloïse bites on the inside of her cheek and walks swiftly, silently to the bathroom where Sophie is vomiting profusely.

This is not the first time Héloïse has had to hold Sophie’s hair back, but it has been a while since the days where they would puke into the toilet in the mornings. Marianne stands in the door and says: “I’ll get water.” She leaves.

When she returns, Sophie lifts her head for a moment… and then goes back again. Marianne keeps hold of the glass and stands obediently in the doorway

“God, Soph,” Héloïse quickly pulls a loose strand from Sophie’s ear. “How much did you drink?”

Sophie coughs once more, and there is a deep silence before she says in a croaky voice: “I haven’t been drinking.”

All is still. Sophie doesn’t look at them. She is shivering. Héloïse blanches, and turns to Marianne. Who has also gone pale.

Sophie throws up again. All is wordlessly understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I have no bachelorette party experience, and initially I tried to watch a travel vlog to get ideas, but I couldn't stomach it so I just went out on a limb.


	7. even exquisite little nothings

Héloïse wakes bathed in sun and sweat. Her eyelids are as thin and flimsy as white linen curtains. The light is painful. She grunts and buries her face in the pillow.

In her groggy, half-asleep state, Héloïse correlates the heavy warmth she’s entangled in with the duvet. It feels odd, smooth, and tougher in some places. But she can’t quite think of what else it could be and her head is splitting so she doesn’t care much. And it’s a kind feeling if there’s such a thing. Warm and cushiony, pressing against her back and wrapping around her waist, loose on her stomach. Legs entangled. Breath on her neck, hot and stale.

Breath. Okay, duvets don’t breathe so that’s probably a person.

Person. Woman.

No!

Héloïse’s eyes fly open and she is immediately blinded, but still scrambles with the sheets, escaping the limbs wrapped around her, the warmth of the body behind her. She launches herself away and tumbles. Her instincts kick in too late and Héloïse lands with an ungraceful, bony thump on the floor. Knees, jaw, funny bone. She sucks in a shout and rolls onto her back, cradling her elbow as a thousand hummingbirds shiver their way along her arm. Through the window, light blares bright and blistering. Héloïse covers her eyes with her arm and wants to die for several reasons.

Amidst her cracking headache and bruising, Héloïse hears some rustling from up on the bed. She counts to three and gathers the courage to remove the arm from her face. Héloïse winces, turning her head away from the window and focuses on the bed she just fell off of. Maybe there’s nobody there at all and she imagined it. Not that Héloïse would imagine that sort of thing. But she does get nightmares so maybe that’s what it was. An awful, traumatic, hangover-induced nightmare.

The hope is bare and flimsy and is erased completely when Marianne pokes her head over the side of the bed, squinting down at Héloïse.

Bedhead again, even more severe than the day before. Still wearing the dress from last night (not that Héloïse is thinking about last night yet; one trauma at a time). She is paler than usual with deep bags under her eyes. Certainly hungover. There is still some glitter on her cheeks and temples. In fact, it’s spread and is dotted all over her face. Like sparkly freckles. If Héloïse wasn’t so nauseous she might try and count them.

Marianne, who was just… who was holding – who was in bed with Héloïse. And, actually, come to think of it, Marianne was on the left. On Héloïse’s side. Which is not what they agreed to, and that means that Héloïse was on Marianne’s side. Not that it particularly makes a difference. It seems, in those moments where Héloïse was only half-conscious, that the pair of them were pressed so closely together that they could’ve been one.

Marianne blinks lazily and opens her mouth with great effort. “You threw yourself off the bed.”

Marianne was spooning her. She was the big – that’s just stupid. “I,” Héloïse tries to correct, but her throat is like sandpaper. She coughs which improves nothing. “I fell.”

Marianne stares at her. Then, her eyes shift to the side. “We can just not talk about it if you’d prefer that.”

An easy out. “Okay.”

Marianne pulls away from view and leaves Héloïse abandoned on the hard wooden floor. Aching and hungover and deeply confused. And annoyed too, but that is to be expected with Marianne.

“Are you getting up?” asks Marianne, her voice all airy and expectant.

See? Annoying. Héloïse rolls her eyes which hurts for some reason. “Give me a moment.”

Marianne says nothing more, but Héloïse hears her shuffling around. Marianne – there’s, there’s something… what exactly happened yesterday? She shuts her eyes and tries to conjure an image. The results are…

Oh, shit. Right. Yes. Karaoke and funerals. Holding Marianne by the waist and Marianne –

Oh, god. That was… that was suggestive. So, they didn’t… there’s something missing in Héloïse’s head here, but they wouldn’t have. They -

Héloïse shoots up, her bones creaking like a rocking chair and stomach lurching. She grabs hold of the bed. Marianne is sat on the other side of the mattress and turns. Her back is exposed but she’s still wearing that ridiculous show-off dress. And Héloïse… she checks quickly and finds that thank god she’s still wearing that stupid jumpsuit.

But that’s still… she has to make sure.

Héloïse opens her dry mouth and takes a moment to conjure the question, “We didn’t…“

She can’t finish. She’s red in the face which is embarrassing but frankly, all of this is embarrassing. Marianne is forever clueless though and waits, head tilted and eyebrows lowered.

Héloïse can’t speak. She makes a vague hand gesture with her index and middle fingers pressed together.

Marianne’s muddled eyes widen to saucers. Her ears go pink. “No,” she says, relatively composed, and then almost immediately after, waving a hand in vigorous dismissal: “No!”

“Okay,” Héloïse stares determinedly at the headboard of the bed, bunching the sheets in her fist. “I figured but I just thought…”

“No,” says Marianne again, “we’re fully dressed,” and then, quiet, “no.”

Pause.

Marianne clears her throat but says nothing for about seven seconds. “I’d remember something like that,” is what she comes out with eventually, eyes meeting Héloïse’s in earnest.

Héloïse does not know what that means.

She manages to ask a useful question of Marianne before disappearing to take a shower. “What do you remember?” Héloïse asks, one hand on the bathroom doorframe.

Marianne is still slightly pink. She thinks, long and hard.

Héloïse stares at her. Thinks of what she looked like in the corridor last night. Shimmering, low-toned. Bold. Something about that moment between them bubbled reverence within Héloïse. Deep and dangerous but unmistakeable.

But Marianne has probably forgotten. They were drinking. It’s hazy. Whatever.

And, sure enough, Marianne has a one-word answer to Héloïse’s inquiry of remembrance. “Sophie,” she says, leaden with concern.

Oh, fuck. Sophie.

\--

It’s only after Héloïse showers, brushes her teeth, and changes into a t-shirt and shorts that she finally thinks to check the time.

“How long were we asleep?” Héloïse asks, annoyed, after Marianne emerges from the bathroom, having showered and changed. Héloïse figured they should head downstairs together and so waited impatiently for Marianne to emerge.

Marianne, bleary-eyed and hungover, presses a hand to her forehead and leans against the wall. “I can’t remember what time we went to sleep at.”

“Well,” Héloïse stands, waving her phone in the air. “It’s a quarter past two.”

“What?” Marianne rubs at one eye, frowning. Something melts in Héloïse’s chest at the sight of her this way, still groggy, wearing comfortable clothes, hair towel-dried and frizzy. Héloïse finds herself slumped forward, elbows on knees, staring up at Marianne.

Marianne notices and drops the hand from her eye. She stares back.

Héloïse hears herself say: “You actually are cute in the mornings, aren’t you?”

Marianne stiffens. Héloïse regrets everything.

Too far, she thinks, too far. It doesn’t even matter. It doesn’t mean anything. Is she still drunk, somehow, is that why she said it? Before Marianne can respond Héloïse tears their staring contest in two and clears her throat, standing from the bed. “Let’s go. They might need help cleaning up.”

Héloïse makes it all the way out the door and down the landing, before Marianne, on her heels, comes up with a reply: “It’s afternoon,” she says.

Héloïse doesn’t get it. “What?”

Marianne hesitates before speaking again, deliberately slow and quiet. “I’m not cute in the mornings because it’s not morning anymore.”

Héloïse’s head is buzzing. Not just with the headache. “Well, then I mean when you wake up. I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant.”

Héloïse fears that what she actually means is that Marianne is cute all the time. Morning, afternoon, evening, and night.

\--

Downstairs, chaos reigns. Héloïse isn’t sure how they didn’t wake up. She and Marianne slip by all the hungover bachelor and bachelorette people from last night, who are carrying big towels and sweeping brushes and various other objects. They all look slightly green and disillusioned. At one moment, one of Gio’s friends cuts through them holding a large plant pot without a plant in it, and they are separated momentarily. Without thinking, Héloïse reaches over and grabs Marianne’s hand, drawing them together as they work their way down the corridor to the kitchen.

Héloïse gets tall glasses for her and Marianne, and they both drink and refill from the tap. Héloïse is refilling her fourth glass when Suzie stumbles into the room, one arm splayed out as though for balance. There are bags under her eyes and her hair is stuffed into a curly brown bun that is falling apart atop her head. She is on the phone. “Please, please, just get the tables here tomorrow evening at the very latest, _comprenez-vous?”_

There’s a pause. From the phone comes a muffled excuse. Suzie holds out a hand flat in front of her and interrupts the other end. “No, he’s on the phone with the bakery, you’re talking to me. We can’t eat on the floor, you’re just going to have to get here.” Pause. “Yes, you will.”

Suzie hangs up and turns, leaning her forehead against the wall with a soft ‘thunk’. She makes a strangled noise.

To Héloïse’s left, Marianne is holding her half-empty glass of water and is standing very still, somewhat alarmed. To Héloïse this is nothing new, though it has been a while since she’s seen Suzie so frustrated. Héloïse downs her glass of water and refills it. “Suzie?”

Suzie groans and doesn’t move. Héloïse walks over, glass of water in hand, and stands by. “Suzie. Suzanne.”

“What?” she is still facing the wall.

“How dehydrated are you?”

Suzie moves her head at last, turning to see the glass of water Héloïse is holding out. She takes it and downs the whole thing, head tilted all the way back. She makes a grunting noise when she’s finished it. “I actually fucking hate everything. Where have you been?”

“Asleep.”

“Through all of this?”

“I’m sorry,” Marianne interjects, still leaning against the counter.

Suzie sighs. She throws one hand up in exasperation. “We’ve been cleaning for ages but I keep finding something else wrong and suddenly we’re getting calls from relatives and loads of the bookings we made are going wrong…” she gestures with the empty glass and nearly whacks Héloïse in the nose. “And – and this is where we’re having the wedding afterparty and it’s a mess. Why did we move the Bachelorette thing back here… god, I’m so hungover.”

She slumps down the wall, falling into a sitting position on the tiles. Without hesitation Héloïse crouches beside her.

“Suzie,” she says, trying to find her sister’s eyes. “Breathe a bit.”

“I _am_ breathing!” Suzie insists but starts to regulate her breaths nonetheless.

Héloïse waits a moment for her to calm before saying: “The wedding’s in two days, okay? We can clean this by four. Marianne and I can do whatever you need to help with the arrangements. But first, you need to eat something.”

Suzie has one hand on her chest and is inhaling through her nose. She cradles the empty glass of water with her free hand and considers what Héloïse said. After a few moments, she says: “Is there anything in the fruit bowl?”

Héloïse turns to look up at Marianne who is still by the counter, only to find her staring, hands bracing the countertop. Héloïse is momentarily distracted before she remembers herself and jerks her head towards the fruit bowl.

Still, Marianne doesn’t move. Héloïse, irritated, is about to clarify when Marianne springs to life and all but throws herself towards the fruit bowl, turning her face away from Héloïse. “There’s a banana,” she suggests, her voice oddly high-pitched and breathy.

“Sounds good,” says Suzie. Héloïse, somewhat dazed, holds out her hand as confirmation. Marianne turns, avoiding Héloïse’s eyes, and hands over the banana. Héloïse stands up, hands knitted together, and stays by her sister.

Suzie peels the banana aggressively and laughs in an airy manner: “Héloïse’s de-escalation skills are good, right Marianne?” She takes a bite and looks over Héloïse’s shoulder.

Marianne doesn’t say anything but Héloïse can assume that she’s nodding. She refuses to see for herself.

Suzie takes another bite of the banana and swallows. “She used to de-escalate herself all the time when we were teenagers,” she says, a mocking smile in her voice.

It stings. Héloïse can’t help but stiffen and look at the floor. She waits for a laugh but none arrives.

Instead, Marianne’s tone is wary, unamused: “what does that mean?”

Suzie glances up at the pair of them, chewing. “Oh, nothing. I was just joking.”

Héloïse catches sight of Marianne, whose forehead is scrunched as she stares down at Suzie. Afraid of what follow-up-question might be asked, Héloïse changes the subject. “So, do you need our help with cleaning or anything?” she asks briskly, brushing off the prickly embarrassment from Suzie’s previous comment.

Suzie considers this, swallowing the last bite of her banana. She runs her thumb along the rim of the empty glass in her lap. Then she sits up. “Oh, you could – Héloïse, do you know where the florist’s in the next town over is?” After a pause, Suzie adds: “The one with the ugly yellow shopfront.”

“Oh, I know it.”

“Yeah. We need to pick up loads of flowers for the tables we’re setting up in the garden,” Suzie rolls her eyes, head lolling back. “If the tables ever get here.”

“They will,” Héloïse affirms. “And we’ll pick up the flowers.”

Suzie cranes her neck. “Marianne, you don’t mind?”

“No, I’ve got nothing else to do.”

Everything seems sorted. At that moment, Sophie wanders into the kitchen, hair tied into a long plait, the kind she wears for bed. She has hands on her hips. “Done with the broken glass.”

Suzie gestures out towards Sophie with the banana peel. “Sophie, you’re my actual hero. And you’re the only one who isn’t hungover. You handle alcohol so well, it’s admirable.”

Héloïse glances towards Sophie who makes no indication of anything. But Héloïse has an idea. “Sophie, would you come with us to run an errand?”

Sophie avoids Héloïse’s eyes but responds in a casual tone. “Who says ‘errand’ anymore?”

“We’re heading over to pick up flowers,” says Marianne, who seems to have clued in immediately. “We might need help getting everything into the car.”

“Right. And we’ll be passing a few shops,” adds Héloïse, “if you need to get anything.”

Sophie meets Héloïse’s eyes. Wide and brown and mostly fine, but with a flicker, a hint of mutual understanding.

“I’ll help,” she agrees.

\--

They get the pregnancy test first.

While waiting in line with Sophie, who holds the small rectangular box in stiff and apprehensive hands, Héloïse notices an eyelash, dark and low on Marianne’s cheek.

“Look at me,” she commands. Marianne does so without question. Héloïse reaches out a hand and uses her thumb to brush against the eyelash away. Marianne’s cheek is fuzzy and soft, like a peach. Her eyes flutter shut even as Héloïse pulls her hand back. “Gone,” she says, slightly weak. The line moves along. On the way out of the shop afterwards, they have to squeeze past someone, and Héloïse thinks to put her hand on the small of Marianne’s back as they pull to the side.

In the car, Sophie sits in the back texting Hugo. Marianne is in the passenger’s seat, and while the three of them are chatting, stopped at the traffic lights, Héloïse absent-mindedly touches Marianne’s leg.

A few moments later, Marianne says: “Héloïse.”

Héloïse glances at her. “Yeah.” She moves her hand back to the wheel.

Marianne opens her mouth and shuts it, eye darting about. “Sophie knows, remember? You don’t have to pretend.”

Héloïse is confused for a moment. Then it clicks and her eyes widen. “Oh,” she turns away quickly, back to the road. The light flashes green so she shakes herself out of it and drives. Something stings within her (why should it sting? She shouldn’t feel hurt). Her knuckles are white on the wheel. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Héloïse chews on her lip in silence until they arrive at the florist's.

\--

“Do you have a bathroom here?” Marianne asks the woman behind the desk as the staff are gathering the flowers.

The woman is in her sixties and wears a sunflower shirt with puffy sleeves. She nods towards the back of the shop. “Down that way.”

“We won’t be long,” Héloïse says, and Sophie says nothing. The woman is gracious enough to not ask why they’re all going together.

Sophie complains about having to pee on the stick but inevitably pees on the stick. She places it awkwardly on the edge of the sink and stares. “It says two minutes on the box,” she says faintly.

“Don’t watch it. Come here,” says Marianne, soft but insistent, arms folded.

Sophie presses her lips together and starts pacing, her steps slow, tennis shoes making flat noises against the floor.

“I don’t,” she begins after maybe thirty seconds, and sighs. She looks at the ceiling determinedly.

“It’s okay, Soph,” Héloïse says.

“No, it’s not. I mean, it would be, but I haven’t told him,” her voice is wobbling. She inhales.

“It’s okay if he doesn’t know right now,” Marianne is much better at being soothing than Héloïse is, “you don’t even know if you’re pregnant yet.”

“No,” Sophie tears her gaze from the ceiling, holding her own hand and turning to face the stall doors. “I haven’t told him that I don’t want kids.”

Sophie wipes quickly at her eyes. Neither Héloïse nor Marianne know what to say to that.

After some more time, Sophie sighs, planting hands on her hips. “At least you don’t risk this kind of thing, Héloïse.”

This is true.

There is more quiet, and then Marianne speaks up, small: “Are you..?” She is looking at Héloïse.

Héloïse fills in the blank. “Yes,” she says. Pause. “Are you surprised?”

Marianne doesn’t say anything but doesn’t look away.

Héloïse is a little incredulous because to her there is nothing more obvious. “I’m dating you,” she says. And then, flushes, stumbles: “Or, I’m fake-dating you. Fake.”

“Fake,” Marianne agrees, not looking at Héloïse anymore.

More silence. And then: “I’m also,” begins Marianne, and pauses for so long that Héloïse thinks that is the end of her sentence. “I also like women.”

Right. Héloïse swallows her embarrassing intrigue and plays it off with a shrug. “I mean, you do own a lot of doc martens.”

Sophie lets out a snort. Despite everything, she is grinning at the floor. “You two make me laugh in the weirdest situations,” she says.

“Shut up,” says Héloïse, a touch fond, but still not looking at Marianne.

A few seconds more. There’s a ding, like a microwave. Sophie sucks in a breath, composes herself. Walks over, leaning hesitantly over the test.

“Shit,” she says, nearly under her breath.

That response is rather telling. So Héloïse doesn’t ask. She just walks over and puts an arm around Sophie, who turns it into a proper hug. They spend a minute that way before remembering that there are flowers to be collected. They go.

\--

Sophie is quiet the whole way to the house. She sits in the back with the inventory. Nobody has ever looked so miserable while surrounded by flowers.

When they pull into the driveway, Sophie unbuckles her seatbelt and rustles past the flowers and plastic. She is out of the car quickly, crunching her way across the gravel with arms folded.

Héloïse goes to follow Sophie inside.

“Wait.”

There’s a hand on her arm. Smooth and holding with certainty. Héloïse turns back and meets Marianne’s hard eyes. For a moment she doesn’t say anything and they are simply staring at each other.

Before Héloïse can get annoyed, Marianne asks: “Does Suzie bother you?”

Héloïse doesn’t comprehend the question at first. “ _Quoi?”_

“The little things she says,” elaborates Marianne, firm and unwilling to break eye contact. “The teasing.”

Héloïse understands and feels a wash of cold. “She doesn’t mean anything by it,” is what she says, defensive.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Marianne’s eyes have the power to melt; piercing hazel. The clouds would part when met with her stare. “I’m asking if it bothers you.”

Héloïse stirs. Marianne’s hand is still on her arm. Despite the insistence in her eyes and voice, her grip is kind, questioning. To Héloïse, it says: _you can trust me._ And despite everything, her defences lower.

“Sometimes,” she admits, quiet. And then she shrugs, brushing it off just as quickly. “But it’s not a problem. It can just be a bit grating.”

Marianne inhales through her nose and blinks. Something slips in her expression, and suddenly her gaze is wide and worried. Her mouth opens a sliver, but not with the intent to say any more.

At first, Héloïse isn’t sure what to feel. And then, she shakes her head and laughs. “Look at you! “ she teases, “all concerned about me.”

Marianne’s eyes flutter, and her worry splits into a closed-mouth, shy smile. She pulls back, her hand leaving Héloïse’s arm. “Shut up,” she mumbles, undoing her seatbelt.

For all her teasing, something settles in Héloïse’s chest. Sweet and soft. She tries not to think about it.

\--

Later in the evening, Héloïse, Marianne, and Sophie have been profusely thanked for collecting the flowers. Gio’s siblings, nephews, and niece have all returned to the house around the time where everyone has gotten over their hangovers. Dinner is had throughout the house at staggered times. Nobody really has the energy to cook after the day’s frenzy. After being interrogated once again by little Martina, Sophie slips away to her room in the evening. Hugo wears an expression of vague concern and Héloïse sends Sophie a text, which she hopes is comforting. She nearly thinks to seek a second opinion on the text from Marianne, but then thinks that’s probably stupid, and sends it anyway.

Speaking of Marianne. When the sky is growing dark, Héloïse finds her lounging on a deck-chair by the pool, reading. As Héloïse wanders over, she notices that Marianne is in her pyjamas already. This means pineapple shorts ( _pineapple shorts)_ and the black jumper. But – inexplicably – it also means a return of the unicorn horn. Dark tufts sticking straight up in the air.

Héloïse represses a laugh because, god, it looks so stupid. She sits gingerly by Marianne. Marianne glances at her, and… smiles? However, she seems to quickly realise this and attempts to fix it, forcing the corners of her mouth down. She returns to the book without any further acknowledgement of Héloïse’s arrival.

Héloïse realises abruptly that she has not brought a book. So… what? It’s not like she’s just going to sit here with Marianne. That would not be nice or peaceful. It would be annoying and tense, probably. Automatically, Héloïse looks over towards the book Marianne is reading. It’s thin, dark-covered. _I’m Thinking of Ending Things._ Iain Reid.

“Mm,” Héloïse has an instant verbal reaction.

Marianne could ignore it, but she doesn’t. She looks over and takes in Héloïse’s expression. She rolls her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re judging my reading choice?”

Héloïse shrugs. “Well, that depends. What do you think of it?”

Marianne shimmies up the chair, pulling her head out from behind the pages. “I think it’s intriguing. In fact, I’m re-reading it right now.”

“Interesting.”

There’s a pause. Marianne purses her lips. She seems to be repressing a smile. “Go on.”

“Go on…?” Héloïse is having a little fun, she realises.

Marianne appears somewhat pained. “Tell me your shitty opinion.”

Héloïse glazes over the insult and takes this opportunity: “It felt underwhelming,” she says, ignoring Marianne’s raising eyebrows. “And it was confusing, even though I mostly understood the ending, I think.”

Marianne squints. “How many times have you read it?”

“Once,” says Héloïse without hesitation, “I don’t re-read books.”

Marianne looks like she’s just been slapped in the face. “Never?”

Héloïse shrugs. “No.”

“But,” Marianne stares, open-mouthed. “You’re a reader.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to read books I’ve already read.”

“Even if you love them?” Marianne sits up, even more, letting the book slide shut on her lap. The unicorn hair is still stuck straight up and Héloïse’s eyes are caught there for a moment. “What about the Book Thief? You loved that, clearly. Or The Second Sex,” she adds without thinking. “The Lesbian Body. Medea. If Not, Winter.”

Héloïse can’t speak for a moment. It is rather striking that Marianne knows all of Héloïse’s favourites. Just like that, and all accurate. But she stumbles her way to stubbornness and thinks of a clever rebuttal: “You remembered that I like ‘The Lesbian Body’ and Sappho and you didn’t realise that I’m a lesbian?”

Marianne flushes. She opens and shuts her mouth before managing to make her point: “My dad likes Sappho and he’s not a lesbian.”

“Are you sure?”

Marianne stares at her.

Héloïse sighs and attempts to explain herself. “I re-read Medea after I saw a production of it. Sometimes I’ll pick something up to reread a passage or to quote it,” she gives a little shake of her head, “aside from that I don’t reread things.”

Marianne hums. She turns away, her unicorn horn bobbing. “How bizarre.”

Bizarre. Is that a good thing? Héloïse will google the definition later.

“And anyway, the whole point of this one,” Marianne taps the book cover, “is that you’re supposed to read it twice.”

Héloïse squints, thinking back. “Are you?”

“The author more or less says so in the end.”

Héloïse sidles up in the deckchair, running a thumb along her fingers. “Well. I don’t like being told what to do.”

Without missing a beat, Marianne looks over and says: “You do what I tell you.”

The silence is deafening. Héloïse stares at her toes, eyes wide and heart still.

What does that mean? What the fuck does she mean by that – it’s not even – is it true? No, it’s not. Hardly. She’s… this is…

Marianne clears her throat. “They’re making a film version, you know? Toni Collette is in it.”

Marianne’s voice is high-pitched and somewhat unsteady, but it’s a subject change and Héloïse will pounce on it. She waves a hand in dismissal. “I don’t watch film adaptions.”

“What?” this time the annoyance is plain in Marianne’s voice. Héloïse forgets herself and looks over to see disbelief stitched into Marianne’s face. Eyebrows shot off her forehead, jaw dropped. “Why not?”

“Because they’re usually shit!” Héloïse defends herself, vaguely amused by Marianne’s horror. “I don’t want to waste my time and money.”

“Stream it illegally,” dismisses Marianne easily, “and time is an illusion.”

Héloïse shakes her head a little. “That’s hardly an argument. We still die.”

Marianne’s irritation fades slightly. She tilts her head, almost inspecting Héloïse. Her unicorn horn flops to the side. Héloïse wants to run her fingers through it.

What? No, she doesn’t. Shut up.

“You think about your death a lot,” says Marianne, pulling Héloïse down to earth again. She crosses one leg over the other. Pineapple shorts.

Héloïse takes a moment to respond. “No, I don’t.”

Marianne hums in amusement, turning her attention to the book, which she has picked up off her lap. “Oh, sure, Ms. Funeral-playlist.”

Héloïse stares at Marianne as she flips through the pages. She referenced the playlist. From the conversation. From their moment last night.

Which means that Marianne remembers it.

Which is fine. Whatever. Okay.

Héloïse has a brief realisation amidst her vague panic. “You’re using my logic.”

Marianne frowns but doesn’t look up. “What?”

Héloïse leans forward, collecting her argument slowly in her head. She swings her legs over the side of the deck chair, resting her elbows on her knees. “You assume that because I have a funeral playlist I must be death-obsessed,” a smile quirks on her lips. Héloïse cocks her head, questioning. “Do you remember, Ms. Wedding-playlist, that last night I assumed that you wanted to get married? You deflected that. Now you’re using my argument; assumption.”

Marianne has since looked up from the book and is unmoving. Only her eyes flicker. Up and down and up and down. Down to Héloïse’s mouth. Or her chin. Could be her chin.

That moment last night. Their closeness. The music that played rattles in Héloïse ‘s head like a haunting.

Marianne purses her lips and tears her gaze away. Maybe she wasn’t looking at Héloïse’s lips at all, and maybe it was a fantasy. Except why would Héloïse think of such a thing?

“We’ve de-railed,” Marianne sounds quiet. She is staring very pointedly at the pages even as she keeps asking questions: “Where were we? Oh, you don’t watch film adaptions because you’re afraid of hating them. Don’t you love talking about things you hate?”

Héloïse frowns, still shaken. “No. Why would I?”

Marianne glances over, though not at Héloïse’s face. To her shoulder, maybe. “You do it an awful lot when you dislike a book that I’ve read,” she points out, quiet.

Héloïse shakes her head, afraid to move too much. “Well, that’s because…”

Why is it?

Marianne meets her eyes again. Héloïse takes her chances and glances – only glances – at Marianne’s mouth. Lips parted. Pink.

She wants. She wants –

“It’s a lovely evening,” comes a voice, high and smooth, from behind Héloïse. Héloïse buries everything that is sprouting within her, telling herself to think of it later, and turns, tearing her eyes away from Marianne’s mouth. She sees her maman approaching, wearing a long black cardigan and a smile. Oddly.

“Hello,” says Marianne from behind Héloïse. Héloïse nods, still shaken. Simultaneously, she is glad for the interruption, and also wishes that her maman would go back inside as quick as possible.

But she doesn’t go inside. Maman sits down on the deck chair beside Héloïse. She is holding a small book. “I’m reading,” she says. Sounding proud of herself.

Héloïse smiles despite it all. “What is it?”

“Poetry. Rosemonde Gérard.”

Héloïse is not familiar. However, she hears Marianne to her left say: “I love her work.”

“So beautiful,” agrees maman, nodding.

There is some silence. Two women read on each side of Héloïse, and Héloïse simply reclines. Her eyes cast up to the sky so that she needn’t look to either her maman or to Marianne.

Some time passes, and a yawn comes from Marianne. “I’m exhausted.”

“How?” Héloïse hears herself saying, still staring at the sky. “You slept in until two.”

“So did you,” says Marianne, defensive. But their tones are not antagonistic. To any onlooker, they could be a couple. Comfortable in each other’s company, free to tease and joke. It might even be sweet.

Marianne says good night and goes inside. Up to bed. Their bed. Héloïse does not watch her go.

There is some silence. Until an inevitable interruption.

“So,” maman is smiling again, the book open on her lap. She’s in a good mood, Héloïse realises. “Has it,” she gestures to the house, which Marianne has just escaped into, “gotten any more serious?”

Héloïse sighs. “Maman.”

“Sorry. I know,” she turns away to the water. But this only lasts a moment before she looks back around, opens her mouth, and says: “I think she’s wonderful.”

At this moment, Héloïse is filled with inexplicable sadness. Her maman’s tone is so earnest and hopeful. She speaks with a vision of a future for her daughter, the one who might not be so hopeless. And it’s a false prophecy. It’s a lie, one she doesn’t even need to tell, not really. It’s all born of her own selfishness, and Héloïse is going to have to let her down one way or the other.

The truth stirs within her. Bubbling, hissing and spitting out steam. Héloïse feels it rise to her throat and bob there.

But she can’t.

Why can’t she? It’s the truth.

And yet, Héloïse swallows. She says: “so do I.”

And fears, deep within her, that it may not be a lie.

Maman is none the wiser. She smiles, blue eyes crinkling. And then, she turns back to her book and flips back through the pages. “Do you want to hear a poem?”

Héloïse exhales. “Sure.”

So Héloïse sits and listens to poetry. She does not think about what is waiting for her upstairs.

\--

After spending time downstairs with the children and chatting and doing everything that will prevent her from going upstairs to their room, Héloïse finds no more excuses. She is tired. Tomorrow there will be floods of relatives and last-minute organisations. So she says goodnight to the others and creeps up the stairs.

When she opens the door, the room is black, save for the sliver of light that pours in from the landing. Marianne is curled on her side in the bed, dark hair feathered on the pillow. Héloïse steps in and shuts the door. They are together, alone, in the dark.

Héloïse considers going into the bathroom to change, but it is black in the room and Marianne is sound asleep. She changes quietly, and then stands, heart hammering.

Why is her heart hammering?

She climbs underneath the duvet, savouring the warm embrace. Marianne’s face comes into view. Eyes shut, mouth open. Breathing softly.

She’s -

Héloïse can’t look away.

She stays there at first. Unmoving, telling herself to pull back, turn around and not think. Bury whatever this is deep within her, and don’t think. She has always been good at not thinking about things.

Until now. Until now.

Héloïse stirs. She reaches out, mindless, and runs her fingers along Marianne’s cheek. Along to the curve of her jaw. Catching the corner of her mouth.

And then. Marianne’s eyes open. Just a crack.

Héloïse freezes.

But the waking hardly lasts three seconds. Soon, Marianne’s eyes are shut and she is sighing, long and warm. The smallest semblance of her that is awake rolls her head into Héloïse’s palm. Nuzzling. And then, when Héloïse thinks she might die, Marianne takes Héloïse’s wrist and holds it close. Still sleeping. Unaware of herself. But she doesn’t let go and Héloïse doesn’t pull back.

God.

Héloïse can’t breathe. She can’t tear away.

Even if she could, she doesn’t know if she would want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title was taken from a translation of 'The Eternal Song' by Rosemonde Gérard.  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed!!


	8. in a place far away from anyone or anywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for casual/verbal homophobia during this chapter. If you’d rather skip it, then know that it occurs during the section that begins with ‘Gio is endlessly grateful for the return of the tie.’  
> (The chapter title is a quote from Jay Rubin's translation of 'The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle' by Haruki Murakami.)

“Ah-“

It’s the sharp exhale that brings Héloïse to open her eyes. She is greeted by the face she fell asleep too. Dark, tousled hair split upon the pillow. Eyes shut. Mouth open as though mid-sentence. Héloïse’s arm was abandoned throughout the night and now lies between them, dejected. In an instant, Héloïse knows that she could and should roll away and out of bed. She should want to get away.

What was it that woke her? Marianne’s breath. High-pitched from within her dream.

Héloïse might think nothing of it, but then Marianne, still asleep, shifts against the bedsheets and exhales again. This time, long and soft until the end, which hitches, becoming high and fluty.

Héloïse stares. She is very awake now.

Marianne moves again, onto her back, and whines, low in her throat. She opens her mouth.

“H-“ she tries.

Héloïse is frozen. But ‘h’ is a common, breathy consonant. Could be innocuous.

“Hél-“ Marianne elaborates, nearly under her breath but unmistakeable.

Well. That’s harder to argue against.

Héloïse isn’t really sure what to do here. Not that what she’s assuming is happening is definitely happening. This might be – it might not –

Marianne makes another noise and Héloïse realises that her own mouth is open. There is something low and burning within her, and Marianne is –

Awake. Very suddenly, Marianne’s eyes flicker open. She shuts her mouth, confused. Stays there for a moment until she seems to recall something, and rolls her head towards Héloïse. Who still has her mouth open. Héloïse jams her lips together but forgets how to move her eyes. So they’re still looking at each other.

Héloïse watches as Marianne turns flagrantly, explicitly red. Her eyes pop and she sits up, fussing with the sheets. Her shorts have rolled up, revealing more of her legs, long and pale. Marianne pulls them down as she stumbles from the bed, and in making her way across the room she says, choked: “Shower.”

And then she’s gone through the bathroom door. Héloïse listens until she hears the hot running water, and realises that she’s barely been breathing since Marianne woke up.

Once she can feel the blood circulating again, Héloïse decides that she can’t stay here and listen to Marianne shower, and think about what she might be doing, or what she was dreaming of. She can’t, she can’t. She really can’t.

So Héloïse gets up and leaves the room, smoothing down the hair that has stuck up on her head. Halfway down the corridor, Suzie launches out of the door in front of her.

“Jesus –“ Héloïse halts and splays a hand flat on her chest. “Give some warning.”

Suzie points a finger at Héloïse and nods. “You haven’t tried it on yet.”

Héloïse stares. “Haven’t –“

“Your dress!”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Suzie shakes her head fondly, placing both hands on her hips. Her smile and eyes are weary. “Do you want to eat first?”

Héloïse considers this. Marianne’s first course of action after her shower and getting dressed will probably be to go have breakfast. Héloïse kind of wants to avoid Marianne for the rest of her waking days, so she makes a decision. “No, I’m not that hungry. Let’s get it over with.”

“So eager,” mumbles Suzie with a roll of her eyes. She goes, and Héloïse follows,

\--

It’s pink. “Dusty pink,” corrects Suzie.

Chiffon. Scattered sequins. Maxi dress. Sheath. Héloïse heard all these terms some time ago over the phone with Suzie, and had to google most of what she mentioned. This is the kind of thing Suzie has had in mind since age twelve.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Héloïse has to admit: she feels a bit like a fairy. And it’s not a bad feeling. “Will there be glitter again?” she asks.

Suzie is at her heels, trying to fix something about the skirt. She makes a ‘hm’ noise. “Did you like the glitter?”

“I did, even though I’m still finding it in the bed.”

“It’s like sand. It gets everywhere. Marianne looked lovely in it.”

Héloïse’s chest tightens. She sort of wants to slam her head into the wall at the thought of Marianne, but can’t bring herself to think of anything else.

She tries to distract herself in the mirror, picturing herself with glittery makeup and done-up hair, which a few of the other bridesmaids have volunteered to do for the sake of the clueless others, Héloïse included.

From the hem of the dress, Suzie clears her throat: “Heloise?”

“Mm?” Héloïse pats down a piece of hair that is sticking up atop her head.

There is a spot of silence. Suzie isn’t pulling at her skirt anymore and is instead sitting on the hardwood floor, head bowed. “I’m sorry for teasing you sometimes,” she says.

Héloïse’s stomach drops.

“About little things,” Suzie continues, picking at the hem of the dress but not really doing anything with it. “Like, about you being an introvert or about marriage. And especially whatever I said yesterday about you de-escalating yourself,” Suzie shakes her head, and her voice wavers. “Anxiety isn’t a joke and I didn’t mean it badly…”

“I don’t even get panic attacks anymore,” says Héloïse under her breath. It’s mostly true. She hasn’t had one in six months.

“I know,” says Suzie quietly, “I don’t really know what I meant, I just said it and then regretted it. I really don’t mean…”

She inhales and looks up at last. Face open and earnest and blatantly, deeply embarrassed. An expression Héloïse recognises from their teenage years. “I think I just assumed you weren’t hurt by any of that. But it was stupid of me. I’ll stop, I promise.”

Héloïse opens her mouth. And finds that she can’t lie about it. “When did you notice that it bothers me?” she asks.

Suzie opens her mouth but doesn’t answer right away. “I didn’t notice,” she begins slowly. “Marianne mentioned it to me.”

The words don’t quite go into her head at first. When they do, Héloïse looks up and sees her reflection in the mirror. She doesn’t recognise the emotion on her face.

“In like, the most polite way possible,” Suzie explains in a rush from the ground. ”It felt a bit like a slap in the face but only because I didn’t realise before…“

“When?” Héloïse asks, mind racing.

“Yesterday evening.” Pause. “She just said that she noticed that about you.”

Huh. “She’s perceptive,” Héloïse hears herself say.

“ _Oui,”_ Suzie agrees, but she sounds uncertain. “Don’t be mad at her for it,” she asks after a moment, near pleading, “she didn’t mean…”

“I’m not,” says Héloïse. She finds that she’s not lying.

There is another pause. And then Suzie shuffles on the floorboards and stands. Héloïse turns to face her, the dress swishing around her feet.

Suzie inhales. Her eyes are grey. Something wobbles within them. “I’m really sorry,” she says in a low breath.

Héloïse blinks and exhales through her nose. “Okay,” she says, “thank you.”

Suzie looks like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, though she still emanates guilt. She lets out a short ‘woo’ and pats herself on the hips, eyes darting about. “Okay, I have the sash somewhere. One second.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her hand as she searches a little suitcase beside her and Gio’s bed. Soon, Suzie threads the sash around Héloïse’s waist. On her finger, the ring glints, as silver as her eyes.

“Are you going to apologise for making me a bridesmaid too?” Héloïse jokes.

Suzie doesn’t laugh. When Héloïse cranes her neck, she sees that Suzie’s lips are pursed, and her eyes are hard-set. “You really hate it,” she says, not looking at Héloïse’s face, remaining focused on the sash, which she is tightening in a knot.

“What?” Héloïse rushes, trying to meet Suzie’s eyes. “No, I don’t.” Pause. A feeble attempt at levity: “We both make a lot of bad jokes, don’t we?”

This doesn’t work either. “I don’t know if you’re joking.”

“I am,” says Héloïse, unconvincingly.

Suzie looks up again and stares at Héloïse. She is chewing on the inside of her cheek. Héloïse realises abruptly that this has been bothering her. “I know you don’t like marriage,” Suzie begins with some effort. “That’s fine, it’s your life,” she swallows, “but I wish you could be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you.”

Suzie blinks and looks away again, knotting the sash a third time.

When she’s done, Héloïse turns so that she doesn’t have to crane her neck, and both sisters are facing each other again. “Do you want to know something?” she asks.

Suzie watches Héloïse expectantly. In this moment, Héloïse is overcome with how alike she is to her older sister. Not just in the shape of their eyes. There is an invisible, outstretched hand that emanates from Suzie’s stare. An offering that Héloïse wouldn’t see at all if she didn’t recognise it from herself.

She takes the hand and leaps. Inhales.

“When you were flailing about your future husband and big beautiful wedding as a teenager,” Héloïse begins, speaking quickly so that she can’t back down. “I spent my time thinking there was something wrong with me.”

It lands. Heavier than she anticipated, both for Suzie and herself. Suzie’s expression splinters and her jaw slackens. Héloïse’s arms are trembling.

“So,” she regrets it now. It won’t make anything better to admit this, something far gone in the past. Even if it still hurts sometimes. Héloïse swallows and shrugs, trying to make her expression light again. “You know. I’m fine now.”

It is not convincing.

Eventually, Suzie opens her mouth. “It’s not illegal anymore.”

Héloïse stares at her. “Not illegal.”

Suzie winces. “Yeah, I hear it now,” she shakes her head, eyes widening. “The bar is low.”

“Mm.”

All at once, Suzie is stepping forward and wrapping her arms tightly around Héloïse. In a manner that elicits something from deep in Héloïse’s chest; a sharp, welling pain that she thought had been long-banished. Now it emerges and fills Héloïse up like smoke.

Suzie squeezes, and mumbles into Héloïse’s ear. “I didn’t know you felt like that,” she says, a near-whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Héloïse stands there, blown away by the swelling feeling within her, and trying to keep it down below her throat. But as soon as she thinks to, she hugs Suzie back.

They stand there together, and slowly Héloïse stops trying to fight the exhale that is building. Instead of having the torrent rush up, Héloïse allows it to leak slowly in a whispered confession.

“When we were younger,” she begins, slow and quiet. She feels it behind her eyes already, and picks at the fabric of Suzie’s t-shirt. “And I thought that I’d never fall in love, I would like… console myself by remembering that I’d always have you,” she swallows, “You know, when we were really close.”

Héloïse stops a moment, trying to get a handle. She speaks even quieter. “But then you met Gio,” she elaborates, trying not to make it sound like a tragedy. “And got your own life. And all I got was stuck.”

Her jaw is quivering. Her vision is swimming. She tries to blink it away only to feel tears bloom in the corner of her eyes, like blossoming, shivering flowers. “I sort of feel like I’m losing you,” Héloïse chokes.

At first, Suzie only squeezes her tighter. Then she pulls back from the hug and takes Héloïse’s face. Her engagement ring is cold against Héloïse’s cheek. Suzie at first appears composed, but she too speaks in a slow whisper, though not without conviction.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Suzie says firmly, like she really believes it. She gives a small shake of her head, never breaking eye contact. “I’m always gonna be your sister.”

A pause. “Unless you disown me,” Suzie adds.

Héloïse smiles and rolls her shiny eyes. Suzie pats her on the cheek and takes her hands away.

After both sisters have composed themselves, wiping at eyes and taking breaths, Suzie makes another point.

“And look!” she says suddenly, gesturing to Héloïse with pride glittering in her stare. “Your teenage self was wrong, You did fall in love.”

Héloïse doesn’t smile at that. She says nothing at all.

\--

Downstairs, Héloïse sees Marianne out the back with the children. Héloïse watches her, on her knees in the grass, listening very seriously and intently to something the younger boy is saying. Héloïse is distracted, then, by new arrivals in the shape of Gio’s extended family.

“Héloïse!” thrills one of Gio’s aunts, in Italian. Her name is Candida and she wears a lot of chunky jewellery. Héloïse remembers her from the few events they would be invited to at Gio’s when they stayed here on holiday. Candida squinted at those she found irritating and interrupted people quite often. She adored Suzie and never spoke much to Héloïse. So it’s no surprise when she asks: “How is your beautiful sister?”

“Busy,” answers Héloïse, who is perfectly happy to talk only about Suzie in this situation.

Noon beckons the arrival of Héloïse’s uncle and little cousins who aren’t that little anymore. When Florent, the younger cousin, disappears off to claim a room, his elder sister Lola rushes up to Héloïse. “Is Sophie here?” she asks. Lola is twenty now, and Sophie is the cousin who is closest to her in age. They have a similar, dry sense of humour and both own a lot of plants.

But Héloïse finds she can’t answer. “I haven’t seen her,” and then thinks to add: “She hasn’t been feeling all that well,” which isn’t actually a lie.

Héloïse doesn’t find Sophie, nor does she find Hugo. Instead, she is found by Gio, who shifts nervously from foot to foot.

“I need to talk to you,” he says in a hushed tone.

“What is it?” Héloïse is immediately impatient. “Don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet.”

“No, no,” pointedly, he stops shuffling about and plants both feet firmly on the floor. “I need a favour. Last-minute, wedding related.”

Héloïse narrows her eyes, awaiting his continuation.

Gio sucks his teeth, eyes wide. “I left my tie for the wedding in the dry cleaners.”

“The one the next town over?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all?”

“I left it there ages ago,” Gio elaborates, rushing with his words. “I completely forgot to pick it up in time.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to worry Suzie, she’s already stressed, and I have to sort out wedding things with her all day so I have no time to go get it myself.”

“Well, okay. I can take the car.”

“My sister’s taken the car to go pick up more family, and after that, your mother is taking it to go sort out some arrangement with the bakery.”

Héloïse stares at him. “Well, I’d rather not walk. It’s ages away.”

“I know.”

He seems quite helpless. Héloïse sighs and tries to think.

Something comes to the fore. She points at him. “Don’t you have a motorbike?”

Gio blinks at her. “I do. It’s in the shed. Can you…?”

“No, not me,” she waves the notion away. “But I know someone who does.”

\--

The motorcycle is red and a bit dusty. Marianne’s eyes light at the sight of it.

“Vespa?” she asks, approaching it and dusting off the seat. They are in the shed around the side of the house, which, as children, Héloïse and Suzie always believed to be haunted. Even standing here now, Héloïse feels uneasy, surrounded by cobwebs and clutter. And a death machine. “I haven’t ridden such an expensive one before.”

Her wonderment is quite sweet. Eyes glowing, pacing around it, and speaking to Gio about it in some sort of motorcycle code. But Héloïse still can’t look at her properly after this morning.

Which is going to be difficult. Because, unfortunately, Héloïse will be joining Marianne on this motorcycle ride. At first, she vehemently denied this idea, because she values her life, thank you very much. But it’s true that Marianne has little idea how to get to the dry cleaners and is shit with directions. And so, she will be joining Marianne for the ride. What joy.

She is advised on several things, including wearing a leather jacket, which is apparently not just something motorcyclists wear for the sake of style and instead is a matter of safety. She grabs a dark green one that she packed for the cool evenings and also puts on her chunky boots. Gio lends her a pair of gloves, which fit nicely.

And then there’s the helmet. Which Gio only has one of.

As he holds it in his hands, Marianne clears her throat. “Well,” she says, gesturing to Héloïse. “You’re wearing it.”

Héloïse snaps her head around to face Marianne. “What? No.”

Marianne looks over, but can’t quite meet Héloïse’s gaze. Her eyes are shifting about. She is wearing a leather jacket that is deep, wine red, and her gloves are too big for her. She is firm in her response. “Yes.”

Héloïse twists her full body towards Marianne, gloved hands knitted together. “You’re driving, it’s more important.”

Marianne stays half-facing away. “Yes, well you’ve never been on a motorbike. I’ve been doing this for years and I’ve driven without a helmet before…”

“You _have?”_ Héloïse’s eyes pop. She’s horrified. “Why would you do that?” she gestures towards the motorcycle, which has been wheeled just outside the shed. “It’s a death machine.”

Marianne wears an expression of vague amusement. The corners of her mouth are tugged upwards. “I didn’t know you were such an advocate for safety.”

“For _your_ safety.”

Marianne forgets herself. She moves her head, meeting Héloïse’s eyes. She blinks, eyebrows up, not quite believing what she just heard. Héloïse doesn’t really believe it either. Gio shuffles about with the helmet, and Héloïse remembers – thinks, oh, she said that because he’s here. For conviction, for show. Yes, very good.

But she can’t convince herself.

Marianne snaps out of her daze and looks down again, pulling at her gloves, trying to make them fit. “Well,” she begins, flustered. “I’m advocating for _your_ safety. As the driver, I’m responsible for you.”

Héloïse takes a moment to ignite her rebuttal. “That’s bullshit.”

Marianne looks up again. “No, it’s true,” she says, not angry. Soft, even.

Her eyes, round and full, look on and do not shake or shut. Did Héloïse once think of them as stars? The kind that grow in brightness, then dim, and flicker. In that respect it is true, but they are more than stars. They are planets, all colour and mist. Moons. Earths. Meteors. Pools of water so clear that they reflect not just the sky at all times of day, but the clouds, the birds, the moon. All-seeing, perceptive, unblinking. They’re beautiful, even in ordinary moments like these. Héloïse is finding this harder and harder to deny.

It strikes her. Now, mid-conversation, mid-conflict. Where the pair of them are so often at home. It hits her now, of all moments, and she realises that she’s – that she can’t -

Héloïse remembers that they are still arguing. Even though she has been quiet for who knows how long.

“Just wear the helmet,” Héloïse asks, grave in tone. She is still firm, despite her heart having settled somewhere else.

Marianne senses a shift. She blinks. And compromises. “You wear it going and I’ll wear it coming back.”

Héloïse bites the inside of her cheek. “Okay.”

\--

“Hold onto me,” says Marianne when they get on the bike.

Héloïse doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s not sure if she can do that. She’s not sure if she can touch Marianne and let go. But she doesn’t want to die falling off the motorcycle. So, Héloïse wraps her arms around Marianne’s waist, and feels her breath catch. Each inhale and exhale. Héloïse stares through the helmet at the back of Marianne’s head.

Once they’re off, she’s not shy about it. Héloïse clings on, listening to the roar of the road, trying to breathe. She manages to keep watch, gesturing with quick hand movements when Marianne needs to turn. She is so distracted by fear that she manages to keep her mind off her realisation, which refuses to stay dormant.

Soon they arrive and park. Héloïse stumbles off, hit by a wave of dizziness. She wrenches the helmet off, throwing her head back and sucking in the air.

“Are you okay? Was that okay?” Marianne takes Héloïse by the arm and searches for her face. Her expression is split with worry. “Even if we get the tie quickly we can wait a bit before we get back on again, if you want.”

Her tone is overflowing with concern and kindness, and Héloïse is melting into a giddy smile before she can stop herself. She can’t really speak, so instead, she just shakes her head and nods, hoping that this communicates something.

In her head, as they walk to the dry cleaners, Héloïse replays what Marianne said to her. _“We,”_ she had said. _“We,”_ and, _“if you want.”_

In the dry cleaners, the pair stand by the front desk and wait, side by side, as a man searches around in the back.

Héloïse thinks of something. She leans and says it into Marianne’s ear. “This is a bit like that part in _‘The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle,’_ ” she cites, “where he finds his tie in the dry cleaners after leaving it there for a long time.”

When Héloïse leans away, Marianne looks thoughtful. “I didn’t really like that book,” she says.

Héloïse stares, incredulous. “Me neither.”

They look at each other. And then the man comes out, holding the tie before him in triumph.

\--

Riding back, Héloïse feels as though there is nobody else in the world. It is her, with her head bowed into Marianne’s neck, and her arms around Marianne’s waist, and her body against Marianne’s back, and all that is Marianne.

She is less afraid this time. She can inhale, and breathe in Marianne’s soap. When she does, Héloïse is barrelled over by the sheer force of her desire.

“If you want,” Marianne had said.

If only she knew how much Héloïse wants. Oh, she wants and wants and wants.

\--

Gio is endlessly grateful for the return of the tie. Marianne could go and do something else now, but instead, she and Héloïse stick together through the afternoon. Sometimes, they join hands, or Marianne will put her palm against Héloïse’s back. They speak in whispers and laugh together. Soon they find Sophie in the living room, sitting alone and glum-faced.

“Not feeling great?” Héloïse guesses, keeping her voice low.

Sophie looks up at her. “Has Hugo said anything?” she asks, matching the whisper.

Héloïse shakes her head, but Marianne says: “he asked me earlier if you seemed off.”

Sophie stares, alarmed. “What did you say?”

“I said you had been quiet, but that it was probably nothing,” Marianne stares at her, “does he know?”

Sophie shakes her head. “Don’t tell him,” she mumbles.

“We wouldn’t,” Héloïse is firm. “But, Sophie…”

And then some of Gio’s family enter the room, cooing, and cheering and greeting Héloïse. They spend some time catching up and meeting Sophie and Marianne. Of course, everyone warms to Marianne immediately. Even Gio’s aunt Candida likes her.

“How interesting,” she says when Marianne finishes telling the fake story of how she and Héloïse got together. Candida points at Marianne with a finger, donning a big green ring. “I wouldn’t have taken you for one of them.”

There’s some awkward, tittering laughter. “Sorry?” Marianne asks, smiling but confused. She and Héloïse are stood, leaning against the wall. Close but not too close.

Candida laughs too, and gestures between her and Héloïse. “Actually, I wouldn’t have thought that about either of you,” she says, ignoring Marianne’s question, “maybe Héloïse as a teenager, when you were a bit boyish. I remember there were some whispers around here.”

The laughter has stopped as it’s become more clear what exactly Candida is talking about. Héloïse’s chest feels suddenly tight.

It might be fine or easily sorted, but Candida carries on. “You know,” she sits up straighter in her armchair, unaware of the change in the atmosphere around her. “More queers should be like the pair of you.”

“Auntie,” comes a tone of alarm from across the room, but Héloïse can’t bring herself to look and see who said it.

Candida doesn’t take the hint. “You’re both very respectful to the rest of us. You keep _that_ side of you to yourselves.”

“Fucking excuse me?” comes another voice. Héloïse turns at last, and sees Sophie, red-faced and fiery, sat up straight in her chair.

Candida shakes her head. “Oh, you know what I mean, dear.”

“No, we don’t know what you mean,” says Marianne. Her tone is grating. A low rumble.

“Yes,” agrees Héloïse, despite the sickness building in her stomach. “Please explain.”

The rest of the room is deadly silent. Héloïse looks around and sees that everybody has their heads bowed.

Candida sighs, long and dramatic. “It’s just that,” she begins, speaking slowly, as though she were speaking to someone stupid, “usual people find it uncomfortable to be around gays and lesbians, so it’s just preferable that you keep that side of you to yourselves. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

“Usual people?” Sophie repeats in horror, at the same time that Héloïse spits: “Oh, you find it uncomfortable, do you?”

“It’s hardly much to ask, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling,” Héloïse says it, an order. Marianne takes her sleeve.

“There’s no need to sound so aggressive about it,” Candida throws her hands up and looks around the room for assistance. One of the cousins has gotten up and left the room, and Candida points after him. “See? You made Stefan uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think-“ begins a woman, Stefan’s mother, but she is interrupted by Marianne.

“Do straight couples make you uncomfortable when they’re being affectionate?” she asks. She is fixated on Candida. Héloïse can see that she is shivering just a little.

“No,” says Candida, as though it’s obvious.

“Then what’s the difference when it’s two women or two men or-“

“Look, you’re being ridiculous,” Candida sighs, impatient, “I think it’s easy enough for gays to keep from kissing in public. I just don’t want to see it.”

Héloïse is about to bite back when she feels a tug on her sleeve. She turns her head and sees Marianne’s face, turned to meet her gaze. Eyes wide, capturing Héloïse with her never-ending stare. She nearly forgets where she is, her breath catching.

But then she takes in the look in Marianne’s eyes. A sparking idea. An invitation. Her mouth is open. She glances at Héloïse’s lips, and then back to her eyes. She tilts her head, questioning, and swallows.

Héloïse’s mind goes blank.

She doesn’t think. She leans in and kisses Marianne.

And suddenly she can think again. And Héloïse is thinking of everything.

Of how Marianne’s mouth feels. Warm and soft, impossibly soft. Of the breath between them, and the short exhaltations from their noses, and of how Marianne is still holding her sleeve. Of how – how an hour ago, she sat on the back of Marianne’s motorbike, and how days ago she thought that they hated each other. And then she thinks that maybe Marianne still hates her, and maybe this is still for show. To prove a point. For the sake of argument.

And then the kiss breaks and somebody pulls back, and Héloïse takes a moment to realise that it was Marianne who pulled away, who is now looking away, frantic around the room. Red-mouthed and breathing unsteadily. Eyes wild.

Did that happen?

Is she dreaming? Is she gone?

Candida is gone. She is fussing out the door, muttering something, and is followed by some relatives. Suddenly, there is a hand on Héloïse’s arm. It’s not Sophie, it’s one of Gio’s uncles, but then there is Sophie, who is still furious and swearing.

Amidst it all, Héloïse looks to the door and sees Marianne slip away, running a hand through her hair as she goes.

When she recovers Héloïse realises – she has to, she has to go. She mumbles something and pushes away to the door Marianne just left through. Only for Gio to step in, blocking the way. The cousin, Stefan, is on his heels, nervous and upset-looking.

“What happened? Héloïse-“ Gio reaches out, concern stitched into his face.

Héloïse feels a rush of frustration. She swats Gio’s hand away. “Could’ve given warning that Candida is a homophobe, Gio,” she snaps, and barges past him, out to the corridor.

Twisting and racing along, Héloïse gets to the door. Where Marianne is shoving on her shoes.

“Leave me alone,” she says, not looking up.

Héloïse feels a pang within her. Confusion shivers all along her bones. She wipes at her mouth. “What?”

Marianne shakes her head. She reaches down and ties her laces. Her hands are shaking. “I can’t deal with this right now, please. Just go back inside.”

Héloïse is trying desperately to think. About what – what exactly happened. Did she misread something? Did Marianne not want – did she –

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse bursts, fidgeting with her hands, breathless. “I got too worked up, I shouldn’t have…”

Shouldn’t have what? Shouldn’t have kissed her? Shouldn’t have brought Marianne here? Shouldn’t have started to, to – “I’m sorry,” Héloïse swallows, shakes her head. “I’m really sorry.”

Marianne is still not looking. She jams the heel of her shoe against the floor, shoving her foot into the boot in the process. “I shouldn’t have come,” she says. Her voice is low and trembling. “You were right that it was a bad idea. I mean, I already knew it was when I agreed. I’m the queen of self-sabotage.”

Héloïse doesn’t understand. She tries to step forward but she is stuck.

Marianne is still babbling. She grabs her jacket from the floor. “I thought I was nearly over you, you know? Before I came here. I tricked myself into thinking that if I spent more time with you I wouldn’t…” she inhales, rubbing her forehead with one hand. “I don’t know who I was trying to kid.”

She turns away towards the door, pulling the jacket on.

“What?” whispers Héloïse. She digs her bitten nails into the palm of her hand.

Marianne sucks in the air, sharp and sudden. “This is already so fucking embarrassing,” she mumbles, her voice wobbling.

Alarm bells ring. She’s upset, she’s – Héloïse finally steps forward, clumsy and reaching, just as Marianne goes to open the door.

Marianne whirls around. Her eyes are wild and glistening, her jaw trembling. “Don’t!” she barks, fierce and urgent.

Héloïse withdraws as though she was scorched by flame. Her throat closes up and she is frozen there, fists to her chest. Staring at Marianne.

Marianne swallows and moves her eyes. She looks at the floor. “Don’t,” she says again, quieter, still shivering. “You’ll make it worse. Please, just don’t follow me.”

She leaves.

Héloïse doesn’t follow her.


	9. you burn me

Héloïse ends up sitting in her room. Their room.

Downstairs there is commotion she doesn’t want to be a part of, and she holds her phone, which contains Marianne’s number. A string of their awkward, stiff text conversations. Héloïse is searching – for what? For signs that she missed? She has run over all their discussions, all their exchanges. Trying to recall glances and smiles and touches.

She’s also trying to decide if she should text Marianne. Or go after her.

No, she wanted to be alone. “Don’t follow me,” she said.

Before Héloïse can think on this much longer, There’s a knock on the door. In an instant, Héloïse is a teenager again; caught. She tosses her phone onto the mattress. “Come in,” she says.

The door opens and there are three people there. Héloïse’s maman, Gio and Suzie. Suzie is first in, quickly making her way over. Héloïse takes a moment to recognise her expression. Jaw tightened, flared nostrils, chewing on the inside of her cheek. At first, Héloïse stiffens, but then Suzie sits decidedly on the bed beside Héloïse.

“Did you know,” begins Suzie, meeting Héloïse’s eyes, “that Candida is a fungus that can cause a yeast infection?”

Héloïse can’t help it. She laughs, a short burst from her nose and a smile sprouting on her lips. She reels backward, looking at Suzie with amused confusion. “Is it actually?”

“Maman just told her so downstairs,” Suzie nods across the room to Gio and their mother, stood by the open door.

Héloïse widens her eyes, turning her head. “Maman, you didn’t.”

“It was relevant,” she says stiffly. And then: “She left, Héloïse. Her eldest daughter is taking her home.”

Relief settles in Héloïse’s chest. Cool and temporary. She exhales and nods at her lap.

Gio moves further into the room. “I…” he stops. Héloïse looks to see his face screwed up, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am, Héloïse.”

The atmosphere has turned stony and serious. Suzie reaches over and takes Héloïse’s hand, squeezing it. For whose sake, Héloïse wonders? Either way, it’s nice.

“I knew she was old-fashioned and a bit ignorant, my whole family knew that, but I didn’t think she would be so stupid as to…” Gio shakes his head, voice turning low, hands opening. Héloïse hasn’t seen him angry like this, not since they were teenagers.

“You didn’t know she’d behave that way,” is really all Héloïse can add. “It’s not a new experience, Gio, I’ve heard it all before.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” says Suzie, high-pitched and clutching Héloïse’s hand.

“No, it doesn’t,” agrees Héloïse, “I’m not excusing what she did, but I’m saying that I’ll be alright.” There’s a pause. “As long as she doesn’t come near us during the wedding.”

Gio shakes his head, arms folded. “Oh, she’s not coming to the wedding anymore.”

Héloïse blinks, caught out in genuine surprise. “What?” she opens and shuts her mouth. “Gio, you didn’t –“

“Of course we did,” Gio’s eyebrows are furrowed. Despite his agitation at Candida, he doesn’t seem a bit nervous right now. “You and Marianne don’t deserve that kind of treatment, nobody does. And it’s not like Candida was going to have a big, accepting revelation anytime soon,” he glances at Suzie. “Really. We don’t want her there.”

Suzie is nodding, lips pressed together.

Héloïse inhales and looks around the room. “Thank you.”

There’s a long, comfortable pause. Interrupted by Suzie, who asks: “Is Marianne okay?”

It hurts to hear her name. Héloïse is greeted, briefly, by a flash of Marianne’s trembling voice, the slamming door. “You’ll make it worse,” she had said. Meant it.

Héloïse crosses her ankles, left over right. “She needed some air,” she says, which isn’t a lie, and then adds: “she’ll be back soon,” which Héloïse hopes isn’t a lie.

She convinces Suzie, Gio, and her maman that she’s alright and that she just wants to rest for a bit after a busy, dramatic day. When they go, Héloïse opens the window and breathes. And ignores her phone which is lying in the white duvet.

She turns away from the curtains and sees the bed. Marianne’s side.

All at once, Héloïse becomes aware of the air that passes through her body. Cool and ever-moving and squeezing, stretching, changing. Feeling it there fills her with inexplicable sadness, which rises like the tide, and blooms to every corner. To the very tips of her ears.

Héloïse walks over. She crawls, somewhat hesitant, onto the bed. On the wrong side. And lies her face onto the pillow, which is dented in the shape of Marianne’s head. The sheets. Rippled like water.

Héloïse keeps her eyes open at first, and sees a dark hair on the pillow.

Then she shuts her eyes. She sleeps there, in the crater. In the shape of Marianne.

\--

She wakes up maybe an hour later and stares at her phone. Goes downstairs and is immediately surrounded by apologies from Gio’s relatives, both those who were in the room with Candida and those who weren’t. They all seem dreadfully embarrassed. Héloïse is more focused on Marianne, who hasn’t come back. She’s terrified that she might have taken the motorbike and because she was so distraught, something might have – might have – but the Vespa is in the shed, where they left it earlier.

Fuck it. Héloïse sends her a text.

H are you okay?

Then thinks it’s probably a stupid question with an obvious answer. Héloïse types out some more texts:

H i’m worried about you.

H i’m really sorry.

H you don’t need to get over me.

H i want to come find you.

Héloïse doesn’t send any of them.

H i really

She doesn’t even finish that one.

Marianne said, “Don’t follow me.” And sometimes when people say that, it means the opposite. But Héloïse feels that’s a bit like assuming a ‘no’ means ‘yes’ or ‘maybe’. And Marianne was shaking. “Leave me alone.”

She said it herself yesterday. Héloïse does what Marianne tells her to do.

Héloïse shuts her eyes and imagines Marianne in her ear.

Tell me what to do, she thinks.

H candida’s been kicked out.

Fine.

But Marianne leaves her on read.

\--

It’s late and Marianne isn’t back.

Héloïse is upstairs, alone on their bed. Staring at her phone again after having distracted herself for hours by helping with the wedding afterparty set-up. The messages she’s sent over the past few hours have been read, so. Marianne is there to read them. Unless her phone got stolen. In which the thief is probably wondering why Marianne is with such a needy, paranoid woman.

Except Marianne isn’t with Héloïse. They are not together.

Héloïse opens her phone and reads some Goodreads quotes from her favourite books. A coping mechanism she adopted in her early twenties when the anxiety got bad again. She stops reading quotes from _The Book Thief_ pretty quickly after realising she is not nearly stable enough for that right now. And moves on to Sappho fragments.

Which is probably an even worse idea.

_“Eros the melter of limbs (now again) stirs me –_

_sweetbitter unmanageable creature who steals in.”_

Maybe one day Héloïse will look back at herself now and roll her eyes, and be embarrassed for how she wept on a shared bed, over words written by a long-dead woman. It’s very teenage. Very unproductive. And yet it’s what propels her to suck air in-between her teeth and lunge into a sitting position. Where Héloïse calls Marianne.

Marianne doesn’t pick up. And nobody listens to voicemail anymore. Anyway, Héloïse is not composed enough to be speaking right now. Alternatively:

H i’ve been thinking about all the things you said to me earlier.

She sends. Types more.

H i can’t stop thinking about it, actually.

i’ve been thinking about you so much over these past few days

She sniffs, inhales. Makes an ugly sound.

H and now I’m crying.

Then panics.

H sorry i don’t mean to put tthat on you it’s not your fault

i don’t know what I’m saying anymore

i feel like I’m having a breakdown or an epiphany or smth

She bites on her tongue and tastes blood. Héloïse types again, slower. Thinking about what she’s saying.

H i just need you to know that i don’t want you to get over me.

i want you to come back to me.

maybe i misheard u or misread something and that’s fine

but it’s dark and you’re scaring me.

i want you to be safe.

Her hands are trembling. Héloïse drops the phone and decides to wait five minutes before picking it back up again. She goes into the bathroom and washes her face in the sink. She soaks two tissues in cold water and presses them to her eyes, counting until two minutes have passed (a technique she learned from a drunk girl while crying in a club bathroom at age nineteen). She does a breathing exercise she hasn’t needed to do for a few months and feels much better until she remembers Marianne and the texts she just sent.

She stands and stares at her phone, lying on the bed. Picks it up and sees that Marianne has read the message.

Héloïse holds her breath as Marianne starts to type.

Marianne is typing.

Marianne is typing.

Marianne stops typing.

Héloïse waits, but nothing happens. She has been left on read.

\--

It’s too dark out. Héloïse rushes downstairs, hardly caring if she wakes anybody up. She races down the corridor when she notices, briefly, that the living room door is open and that Sophie is sitting inside, lit by the orange glow of the lamp. They make fleeting eye contact before Héloïse tears away, back down the hall, until she hears: “She’s okay.”

It’s enough to make Héloïse stop. And then back up, to the living room door. Sophie is standing now, hair loose down her back. Phone in hand. “I just came in. I was with her.”

Something spikes in Héloïse’s chest. She turns into the living room, hands clasped. “Where is she?” Making no attempt to appear composed or nonchalant.

Sophie presses her lips together, stepping cautiously forwards. “Just out walking.”

Héloïse widens her eyes, taking a look to the window and the blackness that is peeking out from under the blinds. “But it’s night!”

“She’ll be back soon,” Héloïse turns to see Sophie, arms folded. In an instant, she has turned from a child in trouble to the parent. “She’s an adult, you know.”

Héloïse’s heart is still hammering. A hummingbird in her throat. She touches the divot between her collarbones, self-conscious, and averts her gaze. Numb-minded, Héloïse begins to walk across the room on shivery legs. Somehow she makes her way to the couch. She sits there, hands clasped in her lap, and stares at the wall where she and Marianne rested earlier. Laughing, leaning together. In harmony with Gio’s family and with Candida and with each other, even. Was that only hours ago?

Héloïse only becomes aware that Sophie has moved when she feels a weight on the couch beside her. Héloïse turns in time for Sophie to pull her legs up onto the couch. Making herself as small as possible. There, she shuffles along and rests against Héloïse. She used to do this, Héloïse remembers, when they would see each other every Christmas as children, and they’d hear Sophie’s parents arguing downstairs. She would come into their room, and Suzie would always be asleep, but Héloïse rarely was. So, Sophie would bundle herself up and wedge in beside Héloïse. Héloïse does now what she did then, when they were children. She puts an arm around Sophie.

They sit in quiet until Héloïse starts to think of Marianne again. Sophie, she realises, is the only person who she might be able to tell of their predicament. But even then it’s too much to spill all at once. Héloïse tries to think of a summary, or of a focus point. But reason falls behind and instead her heart spills from her mouth. “I think she might hate me.”

Saying it, even in a whisper, only hurts more.

Sophie doesn’t respond for a moment. Eventually, she asks: “I thought that was your whole thing?”

Héloïse doesn’t really know how to explain it. So she diverts the conversation. “Have you told him?”

Sophie doesn’t stir. “I don’t know how.”

Héloïse squeezes her tighter, and then tries: “Hugo’s decent, isn’t he? He’ll understand.”

Sophie swallows. “I know he will,” she begins, slowly, “But it’s not fair on him. He clearly…” she pauses. Sighs. “He wants kids, right? And we haven’t had that discussion yet. And I like him, I really do. But I think he might be more invested in this relationship than I am. You know he suggested coming with me, to this? I was happy to bring him but… I don’t think I realised how serious it would be. And now…”

Sophie goes quiet for a few moments. She leans her head backwards, her neck straining against Héloïse’s arm. “It’s just a mess,” she croaks at the ceiling.

And again, after some more time has passed: “I wish we could choose who we fall in love with.”

Héloïse blinks at the wall opposite them. “I think we have some choice.”

Sophie moves her head again like she’s trying to look at Héloïse but doesn’t quite make the whole effort. “Who would you choose?” she asks.

\--

Sophie goes up soon after that. Héloïse can’t bring herself to. She dithers at the front door for maybe ten minutes before turning on her heels. She is walking, before she knows it, out to the garden. Which has all been set up for the wedding afterparty. Tables and chairs and décor in abundance. At this hour, it is an alternate reality. Liminal space.

Héloïse goes right to the back and lies in the long grass. Not to pretend that she’s a child again. She doesn’t really know why she does it, actually. But with the grass tickling her face, and the sky enormous and black above her head, Héloïse almost feels like she can breathe.

Instead of going inside after that, Héloïse sits by the poolside. Feet dangling in the water. She checks her phone. The message has been seen. That’s all.

She shuts her eyes, swishing the water with her feet. The phone heavy and warm in her clasped hands. When she opens her eyes, Héloïse finds Marianne’s contact in her phone and calls her. She holds it to her ear, pressing hot. On the fourth ring, Héloïse hears the same sound from somewhere else. Disembodied and quiet. Approaching.

She looks up, away from the water, and sees Marianne. A vision, walking across the tiles in the dark with a ringing phone in her right hand. When Héloïse meets her eyes, Marianne’s mouth opens and she stops walking.

Héloïse pulls her feet out of the water, sliding her still-buzzing phone into the back pocket of her jeans. She stands on the tiles and makes sure not to slip or lose composure. She takes her time. But all this performance becomes redundant when Héloïse sees Marianne’s face again, and something lurches in her chest. Like two arms outstretched from between her ribs. She stumbles with the sudden weight of it and momentary alarm flashes on Marianne’s face. There’s no time for this, of course. Héloïse keeps going until she is stood before Marianne.

“You left me on read.

“Yes. I did. I’m sorry.”

To Héloïse’s shock, Marianne sounds like she means it. Héloïse doesn’t really know where to go from here.

Marianne exhales. Neither of them declined or cancelled the call, so it ends on its own, and Marianne’s phone pings with a missed call notification. She breaks eye contact only for a moment while shoving her phone into her pocket. Before she has looked up, Héloïse says: “You scared me.”

Marianne meets her eyes again. Her face is shaded grey in the lack of light. “And you scared me,” she returns.

Héloïse blinks at her. “I’m sorry,” she says, and means it. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Pause. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, I wanted it too,” Marianne interjects.

Héloïse stares. She did. So Héloïse didn’t make that up or imagine it.

And Marianne wanted it.

Marianne, who lets out a weak sort of breath, and takes a slight step closer. “You were crying?” she asks, halfway through terror and awe.

Héloïse thinks at first that her eyes are still puffy, but then remembers what she said in the text. She swallows. “You read the message?”

It’s a stupid question because Héloïse knows that Marianne read the message, it says so on the phone. But Marianne answers in earnest: “Yes, all of it.” In her confession, she is shaky, and meets Héloïse’s eyes with uncertainty. With vulnerability.

Vulnerability. Héloïse supposes that neither of them is very good at this. They’re trying, though.

A moment passes. And then Héloïse pushes the question past her teeth: “Why did you want me to kiss you?”

Of course, Marianne does not answer properly. “Why do you think?”

Héloïse shakes her head and steps closer. “I don’t know what to think. I can only hope.”

Marianne gives a shaky little exhale. They are so close that Héloïse feels the hot breath grace her lips and nose. “What are you hoping for?”

She could laugh. But doesn’t. “I think it’s obvious.”

“Isn’t it obvious on my end too?” Marianne tilts her head, somewhat exasperated but mostly distracted, suspended. Quieter, she says: “I forgot. I forgot how to hide it.”

Marianne is looking at her in the strangest way. Everything about her face is open. Her eyes, of course, the size of dinner plates. Dark and glimmering. Her mouth, too, forever on the edge of something to say. Cheeks and ears flushed in honesty. Eyebrows raised, hair torn up as though by the wind. She is leaning forward, only slightly. Searching for something, Héloïse is at first inclined to think. And then, she dares to hope that Marianne is no longer searching, but instead has found what she was looking for.

Héloïse reaches out and slides her hand around the back of Marianne’s neck.

“I hope this is obvious enough,” she says.

Marianne lets out a little noise. An exhale. Héloïse watches Marianne’s eyes shut as they lean in.

Everything is roaring and quiet at once. If she were not being held to so tightly by Marianne’s arm, draped across her shoulders, then Héloïse might have fallen. But they steady each other and soon Héloïse is lost.

Marianne tastes of midnight and relief.

\--

Wordless, they walk through the dark dining room. Up the stairs. Héloïse keeps a hand to the wall and watches the back of Marianne’s neck, pale grey in the lack of light. Her arm, long and marble, and outstretched to the banister, along which her hand slides. Fingers splayed and flexing. Héloïse concentrates, very hard, on the steps she is taking. Afraid that she will stumble or trip and ruin the moment.

Along the corridor they creep. No light seeps from under the shut doors. Marianne reaches their room first and doesn’t look at Héloïse as she grips the handle. Pushes down, and then in.

Héloïse follows. Inside, Marianne hasn’t let go of the handle and is staring at it, mouth open just a crack. Nervous, Héloïse stands just behind her.

When Marianne doesn’t move, Héloïse says, under her breath: “We can just sleep. I don’t mind, if you don’t want…”

She is unable to finish.

Marianne looks up at last, at the door frame. Héloïse can’t see her face. But sees her shoulders rise and fall with a sharp inhale and exhale. Marianne puts her free hand out, and with it ushers Héloïse to step away from the door, further into the room. Héloïse goes. Braces herself, hands clutching to the end of the bed. Kneading. Needing.

Marianne shuts the door. After a quiet pause, Héloïse hears the squeak of the handle as it’s released. And she turns, arms awkwardly slung either side. Hair mussed. Eyes wide and blown and looking, looking, looking and _how_ has Héloïse gone this long. How did she manage it? She can’t remember, now that she is here, watching and being watched.

Marianne shuts her mouth, and it blossoms into a fluttering shape. A whispery smile.

“I want to,” she says, all breath and music. Marianne pushes away from the door, towards Héloïse, never taking her eyes away. Héloïse clutches tightly to the footboard of the bed.

Marianne blinks. Blinks again. Shakes her head. “I’ve just been thinking about this for a long time.”

For a long time.

Marianne is close now. And why is Héloïse so nervous? When they’ve kissed. Twice today. Once only a few minutes ago. Yet she falls giddy under that stare, under the buzzing warmth of her. The possibilities that lie in one step forward, in reaching hands and tilted heads. Héloïse can hardly move. She’s burning.

All she can think to say is: “How good is your imagination?”

Marianne doesn’t blink. The smile is gone, mouth open again. She shakes her head. “Not good enough.”

And presses forward.

There’s not a moment where this kiss is singular or chaste. This is not the kind one pulls away from after five seconds. This is wet and wanting. Héloïse lets go of the bed at last. Marianne’s hand is on her neck, her thumb stroking along the hollow of Héloïse’s throat. They steady each other, rocking together. Nearly thoughtless, Héloïse begins to tug at Marianne’s t-shirt from where it is tucked into her jeans.

Marianne makes a noise at the back of her throat and nods, breaking the kiss for just a moment. “Yes,” she seems to say, though it’s mumbled. When she returns, mouth on mouth, Marianne’s hands fall to Héloïse’s shoulders, and she pushes lightly so that Héloïse moves back, and her knees bend against the footboard. She holds tightly to Marianne’s t-shirt. When they crash-land, their teeth knock for a moment of unsteadiness, and Marianne has to let go of Héloïse to balance herself, hands either side on the mattress. Marianne pulls her knees up, and crouches, bent over, and filling everything. Absolutely everything. What else is there?

“Can I take,” breathes Héloïse, buried in the rumpled duvet. She is clutching to the hem of Marianne’s shirt. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes. Yes. Do,” Marianne is agreeing before Héloïse finishes her question.

So she does. Héloïse’s hands are shaking badly, and when the t-shirt is off, her jaw starts trembling too. She tries to quell the shiver of her bones, but after Marianne has discarded the shirt, she looks down, and her eyes grow round. “Are you okay?”

God. Héloïse’s face flushes hot behind the cheeks. She tilts her head back, trying desperately to sink into the duvet. She shuts her eyes and exhales long and hard, as though trying to expel smoke that has been stuck in her lungs all these years, from a long-ago cigarette. But there’s nothing there, only breath, untangling thinner and thinner until it is but a flimsy thread whistling from between her teeth.

“We don’t have to,” Marianne sounds nearly embarrassed.

Héloïse blinks back to life and finds Marianne’s hovering face. Her shoulders are bare. Her collarbones, chest, stomach. Skin and skin and skin. It overpowers the shiver of anxiety, and the constant, nervous tapping in the back of Héloïse’s head ceases. Speechless, for once, Héloïse reaches up and takes Marianne by the back of the neck, pulling her down. Pulling her in.

\--

“I’ve been thinking.”

Héloïse has not been thinking. She can’t remember how.

“And,” Marianne breathes into Héloïse’s neck, her breath flitting like ladybird wings. Héloïse is sitting on her lap, Marianne’s arm wound around her back. “I’m going to give Medea another go.”

Héloïse dissolves. She pulls Marianne’s head out from where it’s been buried in her neck, kissing and biting. Héloïse finds Marianne’s face, lips swollen and red. Eyes glistening as though with tears, though she isn’t crying. Head tipped back, looking up at Héloïse.

Héloïse holds her there. “Really.”

“Yes. You convinced me.”

Marianne returns to work.

Héloïse nods again and again, eyes shutting. Head bent back. “I’ll reread… something too.”

Marianne pulls away only for a moment. “Which one?”

 _Whatever you want,_ Héloïse thinks. _Whatever you want me to do._

“Something I didn’t like. That you liked.”

“Let’s stop talking about books now.”

“You started it.”

She soon forgets her complaints.

\--

There is so much of her. Uncontainable.

Marianne fills every sense. Familiar and foreign. She tastes of the morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Her eyes, when open and gazing, roar a thousand colours. In her zenith, they are a pair of suns. And like Icarus, Héloïse doesn’t care if the wax melts from her strung-together wings.

She would rather go blind than look away. She would rather burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is a Sappho fragment. Of course.


	10. to love not in her weakness but in strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is a quote from Simone De Beauvoir's 'The Second Sex':  
> “On the day when it will be possible for woman to love not in her weakness but in strength, not to escape herself but to find herself, not to abase herself but to assert herself — on that day love will become for her, as for man, a source of life and not of mortal danger.”

There is someone knocking on the door.

And there is somebody in Héloïse’s arms.

Héloïse has no intention, at first, of stirring, because this embrace she is caught is warm and beckoning and perfect. But then the hammering becomes more insistent and she hears her name. Héloïse grumbles and cranes her neck, opening her eyes to the pale morning light. She makes a noise that sounds a bit like a dead man crawling from his grave.

“Do you know what day it is?” comes the sheer exasperation from the other side of the door. “We have to help Suzie get ready. _We_ have to get ready.”

Héloïse blinks, fuzzy, and suddenly manages to place the shrill voice as Via.

“Oh.” All at once her memory comes flooding back, and Héloïse does indeed realise what day it is. And what happened yesterday. And just who it is she is holding and being held by.

It all feels like a lot. She sits up, dislodging herself from the entanglement, and the duvet falls away. Héloïse glances down at her bare torso and then back to the door with alarm. “Don’t come in!”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” poor Via sounds exhausted. What time is it? “Just come on. And tell Marianne that the other guests are heading off.”

Marianne. Héloïse glances back down at the body beside her, who is shifting, eyes screwed shut. Hair a dense dark forest against the pillow. She silently pulls the duvet over her head. She’s not wearing any clothes. She’s in bed with Héloïse. She slept with Héloïse, and not just in the physical sense.

It’s a dizzying sight. Héloïse looks to the door. “Can you give me two minutes?”

“I’ll be waiting down the corridor,” Via says, and Héloïse listens to her pad away down the hall.

Héloïse pulls on cloth shorts and a t-shirt from her suitcase. Then she crawls back onto the bed, sitting beside the Marianne-shaped lump residing beneath the duvet. Slowly, she pulls it back, revealing a sleepy face, eyes fluttering and nose scrunched. Héloïse, transfixed, pushes thin strands of hair from Marianne’s face. Marianne stills at the touch and opens her drowsy, dark eyes. She finds Héloïse’s face immediately and smiles.

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Héloïse is stroking Marianne’s cheek now. A delicate, wandering thumb. Something is glowing inside her chest.

She thinks of something to say. “Do you still want to come to my funeral?”

Marianne’s face splits with concern, but she doesn’t move. “Why?”

Héloïse can’t contain her flowering grin. “Because I think I might be in heaven.”

Marianne softens again, exhaling through her nose at the understanding. There is a pause before she asks, a smile in her voice: “Are you religious?”

“Not at all.”

Marianne rolls her eyes and Héloïse laughs. It’s all so bizarre. This feels new and strange. But not wrong, not at all. From Marianne’s response last night (both verbal and physical) and from the way her face is shining now, Héloïse can guess that she feels the same way. Impossibly, nonsensically. But she’ll take it.

\--

After she convinces Marianne to get up and get ready, Héloïse rushes from the room and finds a somewhat disgruntled Via in the hallway. Héloïse apologises and they climb to the next floor.

Via yawns. “God, I’m exhausted.”

Somehow, Héloïse is pretty awake. Excited, even, for the day ahead of them. “Stress kept you up?” she asks.

Via glances over at Héloïse, lips thin and unimpressed. “No. It was more to do with all the noise from your room.”

Héloïse pales. Then goes red. She stops walking. Via, now on the landing, turns around and stares at her. Smiling now, hands on hips. “As irritated as I am, I’m also kind of impressed.”

“No.”

“Sorry. There’s no denying that it happened. We exchanged notes,” Via hesitates, “metaphorical notes. We didn’t actually – you know what I mean.”

She turns to go. Héloïse, reluctant, and fearing for her life, follows.

When Héloïse enters the room, she is greeted by five swivelling faces, Suzie’s included. She is in a chair, her curls being pinned into a fancy updo by Simone. Panya points at Héloïse, eyebrows raised. “I told you you’d get railed.”

Héloïse shuts her eyes for a moment. “Please end my life immediately.”

“No time for sex or death today, ladies,” quips Nanette, ever-serious, pink hair in a lopsided ponytail. She is on her phone, eyes glued to the screen. “We have a wedding to sort.”

Héloïse drags a hand down her face. She’s not even sure she can deny this, bottom lip caught between her teeth to catch the embarrassed smile threatening to emerge. “Yes, let’s move on as quickly as possible.”

“All I’ll say on the matter,” Suzie holds up a finger, and before Héloïse can stop her, says: “I’ve never been more thankful for my deep sleeping abilities.”

At this moment, Sophie enters the room, arms full of cosmetic glitter bottles. Her expression is lighter than it was last night, and there’s a bounce in her step as she walks in. “What are we laughing about?”

Panya, ever-helpful, says: “Héloïse getting laid.”

Sophie snorts. “Yeah, like that ever happens.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Suzie is quick to pipe up, holding a finger in the air. “My sister is sexy.”

Via bursts out laughing.

“Suzie,” Héloïse is still red in the face. “You are making this so much worse.”

“Yeah, that didn’t sound great, did it?”

They manage to move on to more important matters. Sophie seems clueless about Héloïse and Marianne’s… travails. Must have slept through it. Héloïse thinks she will deal with this tomorrow, if at all.

\--

Suzie’s dress is, as long-promised, not white. It’s pink and gold. “Rose gold,” whispers Suzie, hushed and teary as she gazes at her reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t cry, it’ll ruin your face,” urges Simone, who spent ages on Suzie’s shimmery makeup. But Héloïse watches Simone wipe her eyes when she thinks no-one is looking.

If the bridesmaid’s dresses are fairies, then Suzie is the fairy queen. Doused in glitter with daisies threaded through her hair. All she needs are wings.

After a bit of chaos, the bridesmaids are supposed to start getting ready. Héloïse has to run to her room to grab a hairbrush. She takes a look at Suzie before she goes, who is rushing around the room in excitement, despite the heavy dress.

“Isn’t it so stupid that I’m never supposed to wear this again after today?” Suzie twirls, “I’m going to wear this every day of my life.”

Héloïse smiles, and goes.

She opens the door into their (their!) room, and Marianne is there. She jumps, turning to face Héloïse.

She’s dressed. Dressed up, for the wedding. In a suit.

Not a super fancy suit, not an outshine-the-bride-or-groom suit. But a suit nonetheless. It’s red. Wide leg trousers. Pockets. A black, lacey, fitted top underneath. Héloïse looks down. Doc Martins.

“Shit,” Marianne sighs. Héloïse looks up to see her shoulders sag. Her face is bare of makeup, hair down. “I meant to surprise you.”

Héloïse tries to say something but finds that she can’t right away. Marianne watches the struggle, and a slow smile comes over her face. She turns slowly to face Héloïse, eyebrows raised in wait. There is a small toiletries bag in her hands.

“Did you,” Héloïse begins but stops again for a moment. She regains her composure. “You know I’m going to be distracted the whole time.”

Marianne beams, proud of herself. “I think,” she begins, as though she is truly considering it. “Deep down, that was always my intention.”

Héloïse rolls her eyes fondly. She lingers in the doorway, having forgotten why she came back here. Marianne, in her beautiful suit, is the best kind of distraction. Héloïse watches her smile grow smaller, shyer. She takes Héloïse in, gaze rolling.

Neither is sure what to say. So Marianne breaks the moment and turns into the bathroom, clearing her throat as she goes. “I’m going in a moment. Just need to do my face a little.”

Héloïse thinks, then, of the hairbrush. She grabs it off her bedside table, and takes in the sight of the bed, still rumpled and torn up. She shuts her eyes and thinks of – of Marianne’s legs either side of her head. Her hands, and the pulse in her neck.

As though by instinct, Héloïse catches herself and starts to pack the memory away. Until she realises that she doesn’t need to do that anymore. Did she ever do that because she wanted to? Probably not. Plenty of excuses were made.

Héloïse clutches the hairbrush and walks back across the room. In the bathroom, Marianne is trying not to poke herself in the eye with a stick of mascara.

“I think I’ll just do this and…” with a swoop of her hand, she applies it. Blinks. “Lipstick.” Marianne puts the mascara down and picks up a tube of lipstick from the toiletries bag, which is open on the sink.

Héloïse lights with an idea. “Let me do it,” she asks, striding forward.

Marianne looks over at her, eyebrows raised. A smile quirks her lips. “You want to?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?” Héloïse means it as a joke but is actually curious, anxious, to know the answer.

Marianne doesn’t blink. Or answer. Instead, she holds out the tube of lipstick, clasped in two fingers.

Héloïse takes it from her, unsheathes it. Wine red. Héloïse steadies herself with one hand on Marianne’s shoulder. Outside of last night’s heat and rush or this morning’s drowsiness, a single, purposeful touch feels so daring and new. Héloïse focuses, keeping the lipstick still in her grip. Marianne’s mouth is open and waiting.

She applies it to the top lip. Not used to doing it on someone other than herself, Héloïse concentrates very hard.

Thankfully she manages the top lip. When she pulls away, Héloïse mimes pressing her lips together. Marianne takes a few seconds and then mimics Héloïse. Her lips are dark and glossy when she pulls them apart and she looks so gorgeous that suddenly Héloïse is leaning in.

Marianne meets her, and Héloïse can feel her smile against the kiss, humming in surprise and amusement. They become lost to it for a moment, heads twisting, mouths opening. But soon Marianne makes a noise and breaks away. Héloïse opens her eyes to see the lipstick smudged on Marianne’s laughing mouth. “You’ve got so much all over…” she waves a hand around her own lips to mirror Héloïse.

Héloïse turns to face the mirror. Her mouth is a mess of glossy dark red. She snorts in response, and pulls away, delivering Marianne a beaming grin. Marianne laughs harder, shoulders hunching.

When she recovers, Marianne inspects her own damage. “I’ll have to redo that now.”

“Or I could –“

“No, you’ll only kiss me again.”

Hearing Marianne say the word ‘kiss’ sends something soaring in Héloïse’s chest. “Then let me again, before you reapply.”

Marianne turns to Héloïse. Her smudged mouth curves into a shy smile and she nods.

So Héloïse does. Pulling away is hard, but soon they wipe the lipstick from their mouths, and Marianne shoos Héloïse away before she reapplies it.

“I’ll see you,” Héloïse says before she leaves the room. “At the ceremony.”

Marianne’s eyes glimmer. “Bridesmaid,” she murmurs.

Héloïse realises, for once, she doesn’t feel discomfort at the idea. She even smiles. Lots of smiling today. “Okay.”

Marianne gives a little, adorable wave, and Héloïse tries to think of how she managed to resist Marianne, in all her hard-eyed, shimmering wonder.

\--

The method of getting to the venue is not exactly graceful. The bridesmaids pile into their cars. Héloïse will drive Suzie’s car with Sophie on her left, and Suzie soon to be in the back. Before Suzie gets in, Héloïse whispers to Sophie, “how are you feeling?”

Sophie bats a hand. She is wearing an identical dress to Héloïse, dusty pink, fairy-like. Glitter-faced, of course. “Fine. It’s Suzie’s day, we can talk later.”

It’s true that there’s not much time for anything, because soon Suzie throws herself into the back of the car. She pulls her heels off. “I should’ve just worn flip flops.”

“I would have disowned you,” says Sophie, at the same time that Héloïse says: “If you did that then Gio would divorce you before you even marry.”

“Divorce jokes already, Héloïse?” Suzie whistles, leaning back, dress draped along the seats. She is stunning. “I’m not even down the aisle yet.”

They drive, chatting amicably and excitedly. Marianne lurks in Héloïse’s throat, in the back of her head, but she swallows each time. Concentrates on the road and tries not to think of her suit.

The venue is this gorgeous hall that Suzie and Héloïse used to play outside of as children. They were kicked off the premises a few times, for scratching their names into the brickwork. After the ceremony, Héloïse wants to check if it’s still there.

Pulling up, the place is decorated in ivy and Virginia creeper. Smaller than she remembers. Beautiful all the same. The other bridesmaids have arrived and are bustling around to the back. Inside, everybody is seated. Awaiting.

After Héloïse turns off the engine, she glances up at Suzie in the rear-view mirror. “Good to go?”

Suzie blinks. And nods. There is a smile splitting her face, and she taps on the window. “Yes,” she says, and Héloïse believes her.

\--

Héloïse is reminded, somewhat, as she waits to file in, of the musicals she was forced to put on as a child in school. She was never a fan of singing, but there’s something unique about that thrill. The beginning of something long-awaited. This, she supposes, is opening night of a marriage. Though hopefully, it won’t be a performance.

Héloïse walks down the aisle with Gio’s friend Cyrique, who is already almost on the verge of tears. Héloïse won’t cry. Probably. Hopefully. She’s not sure what would happen to the glitter on her cheeks if she did. Before her, Gio is keeping composure just barely. Fidgeting. Héloïse mouths: “Nice tie.” He rolls his eyes, but is still smiling.

Everyone is standing. All the faces turn to look and smile at them, and Héloïse is searching for one in particular. But it’s only when she stands in her place at the top of the room, flowers clutched in hand, that Héloïse sees her. Marianne, mouth open, lips red. Her eyes are brilliant and unblinking. She exhales through her mouth, and shakes her head slightly. Mimes checking her pulse. Héloïse snorts. Embarrassed, she hides her face in the bouquet.

There are the other bridesmaids and groomsmen, Panya coming in at the end as the maid of honour. The flower girls, petals scattered. The ring bearer – Gio’s eldest nephew, who walks very slowly and carefully. Throughout it all Héloïse keeps glancing at Marianne, who is always smiling, either at Héloïse or at those coming down the aisle. And, at the very end, comes Suzie.

She is grinning. That uncontrollable Suzie grin. Her dress shimmers in gold and pink, dragging along the floor. She clutches onto her maman – Héloïse’s maman, who is dry-eyed, for now. On the way up, Suzie playfully taps some of the children on their heads with her bouquet. Near the front, she sees Héloïse and inhales. Héloïse nods at her, encouraging. Proud.

At the front, Gio and Suzie stand and gaze at each other, nervous and glowing and in love.

In love, in love.

Maman takes the bouquet from Suzie, whispering something to her. She takes a seat – locks eyes with Héloïse, and smiles.

The ceremony proceeds. And it’s sweet, really sweet. For all her complaining and stubbornness, Héloïse has to admit that watching Suzie read the vows she wrote herself, recounting their teenage years, their immaturity, their gradual coming together – it’s emotional. Even though Héloïse was there to witness it all in real time, and even though she envied it once, watching Gio’s wobbly smile and whispered adorations makes her chest ache.

In Gio’s speech, he recounts: “I was terrified of you when we were kids. Maybe I was more terrified of your sister, who punched me that one time. Thanks Héloïse.” and everybody laughs, Héloïse included. “But terrified nonetheless. I think love is terrifying, especially for teenagers. But for adults too. That’s why it takes us so long to accept it. I always thought I’d be even more scared of this – of commitment. Getting married. But when I was in my early twenties, I attended a wedding, and when I sat in the crowd and listened to their vows, I could only think about what my vows would be to you. I could only think about marrying you.”

Suzie cries then. She doesn’t even fan at her face or make a joke like she usually does. She nods and smiles and whispers something softly that Héloïse doesn’t quite catch, and Gio exhales.

And Héloïse, who is tearing up too, can’t help it. She looks into the crowd. And there is Marianne, already awaiting her gaze. Shoulders sagged. Her eyes are shimmering, wobbling. Head tilted. 

Not smiling. Lips wine-dark and trembling, parted. Exhaling, inhaling. Forever breathless.

Héloïse feels –

She feels the stars burn behind her eyes. Her bones flooding. Moonlight on her back. Ten thousand flowers blooming.

She feels, she feels, she feels.

In the crowd, Marianne laughs a little. A silent, smiling exhale. She shakes her head.

Unbelievable.

\--

And so, Suzie and Gio are married. And a lot of people are crying. Even Héloïse wipes at her eyes as they leave.

Before Suzie gets into a fancy car with Gio, a relative comments about throwing the bouquet. “Oh, right,” Suzie turns to the crowd, holding the flowers up in the air, clutched in one fist. “Who wants to get married soon?!”

Before anyone can mention that this isn’t how it works, a voice emerges: “I’d like that!” From the crowd comes that cousin of Gio’s – ah, Stefan. Suzie proudly hands him the bouquet, and he makes a show of smelling the flowers.

Héloïse feels rather shaky after the whole thing, and she’s not even the one who entered into a legally binding contract. So the tap on her shoulder makes her jump. When she turns and sees Marianne, she doesn’t quite calm, but her heart does swell. “Hi,” she whispers, nearly silent amidst the loud surroundings.

Marianne hears her. “Hi,” she returns, nodding. Looking Héloïse up and down and shaking her head. “You…”

Héloïse waits but nothing comes. She laughs, jittery, at Marianne’s stunned expression. Marianne flushes and shakes her head. But then, meets Héloïse’s eyes and squints. “Are you okay?”

Héloïse is considering the question when Sophie appears at her side. “Do you want to ride with us?” she asks Marianne. Her mascara is smudged.

“Sure. Sophie, you look stunning.”

“Thank you! As do you. Red lip and all.”

They wander to the car and Héloïse is silent at the way. Something spikes in her blood. It’s as though she is being gripped at the back of the neck by a cold, ghostly hand. She knows this feeling well, but it’s fine. She’ll be fine, she just needs to breathe a little.

Héloïse gets in the front seat, sits there for all of five seconds, hands sweaty and shivering on the wheel, before asking: “Actually, Sophie, do you think you could drive?” She does well in keeping the tremble from her voice.

“Sure. Everything okay?” Sophie knows her well.

“Yeah, I’m just a little,” Héloïse makes a vague hand gesture. It’s all Sophie needs to know.

Even the passenger seat feels a little much. Héloïse takes the back seat next to Marianne, who is looking over her with clever, searching eyes. Héloïse doesn’t want to be searched for. She just needs to get a hold of this. She rolls the window down and inhales, deeply, through her nose, as the car pulls away.

It doesn’t even make sense why she should have this now. Nothing happened, really. It’s a happy day.

“Are you alright?” asks Marianne again, but Héloïse barely hears her. She manages to nod but it makes her head spin.

She inhales through her nose.

Not today, just not now. Please.

But it’s too late. Héloïse’s forehead is hot and she is frozen, back pressed to the seat, eyes locked ahead. Unsteady breaths escape her lungs. Her hand is on the rolled-down window and she can’t move it – why can’t she – she can’t.

“Héloïse,” comes a voice, twisted with concern and confusion. Not Sophie, who would know. She knows now, because Héloïse hears Marianne says something with an edge of panic, and Sophie is pulling over. Héloïse hears her name a few more times but she’s just trying to focus on breathing. How to breathe – how to breathe. Deep breaths, they always said in school. But it’s not that easy, if it were that easy then this wouldn’t – this wouldn’t –

There’s a hand on her arm. Héloïse lurches away, a sudden, jerky movement amidst the stillness. “Don’ touch me, don’ touch me,” her words slur together, half-shouted. Don’t touch her, that’s the rule, that’s the protocol. It makes things worse. Héloïse knows this, so does Sophie.

How much longer? The rational side of her brain knows it will end soon, but the rest of Héloïse’s mind is full of knotted threads. She forgets how to breathe, how to think or move.

She does think of one thing, and it comes out in a sludgy, mumbled mess: “Don’t tell Suzie. Don’t tell her.”

“Okay,” says somebody.

“Don’t. Her day. It’s her day.”

It feels like dying. She might be dying. But this happens all the time, and she never dies.

She can’t shut her eyes. The road ahead is still but cars roll by. A skinny tear slithers down Héloïse’s cheek. But she’s not sad, she’s not – it just happens like this, it just does. She knows. Be patient with yourself, darling.

This hasn’t happened in a long time.

She inhales. Deeply. And exhales just the same.

It’s over, she thinks. How long was that for? Five, ten minutes? Could have been longer. Héloïse shuts her eyes at last and breathes. Such a privilege.

“Are you back?” asks Sophie, twisted around in the front seat.

Héloïse can’t move her neck. Afterwards, she is always sensitive and trembly. It takes varied times for her to come back, to move properly again. Teeth stop chattering. After a moment, she answers the question: “Yes.”

Marianne is on her right, Héloïse realises abruptly. She trusts that Sophie explained the situation while she was far gone. She swallows and tries to say: “Sorry you couldn’t touch me. It just makes things worse…”

“It’s okay,” Marianne says quickly, like she means it.

There is more silence. Héloïse is able to move a little in her seat. A wave overcomes her. Not a wave of anxiety, rather disappointment. “I went so long without having one,” she says, irritated with herself.

Sophie interjects immediately. “You used to have them every day when you were fifteen,” she reminds Héloïse, “Now it’s what, twice a year?”

But Héloïse is not impressed. She stares at her hands, knotted on her lap. “What if I get set back again?” she asks, mostly of herself.

After a beat, Marianne pipes up: “Again?”

Héloïse moves her head, just a little, feeling a warning twinge at the back of her neck. In her peripheral, she sees Marianne, sat a distance away. Beautiful red suit. Legs folded up on the seat. Héloïse tries to smile. “Eavesdropper,” she says fondly.

Marianne’s defences are set. “It’s hardly eavesdropping, I’m right next to you.” But still, she is soft and patient. Héloïse’s heart glows.

She thinks of how to explain this. “I was getting better,” she begins, “For ages. I went a whole year without having a panic attack. And then when I was twenty-three I started getting anxious about my new job. Suddenly I went back to getting attacks at least every second day.”

Héloïse breathes in. Fresh air mixed with the stale, dusty car. “I thought I was going to die,” she admits, “It was awful. I felt like I was back to square one.”

There is more silence. “Progress isn’t linear,” Marianne adds, firm but gentle.

Héloïse manages to look at her again. They stay that way, as Héloïse recovers bit by bit. Soon, Sophie starts the car again. Héloïse sticks her head out the window. And, after a little while, spots Marianne’s hand on the seat. She stares at it, and Marianne notices. Offers it out. Héloïse takes it, and they hold each other all the way back to the house.

\--

Everybody else is there. Inside is clearly loud, and Héloïse is not quite ready for that. So Marianne runs in to grab some water for the lot of them.

While waiting outside, Sophie says: “I told Hugo.”

Héloïse looks at her. “Oh. Good. Did it…?”

“Like, I told him I’m not keeping it,” she says. Her arms are folded, and she is defiant. Confident. “He’s… he understands.”

It’s more complicated than that, Héloïse can tell. Too much to unload all at once. “If you want me to go with you when we get back,” she says, “I will.”

It’s really all she can offer. But Sophie’s eyes soften. She nods, looking at the gravel. “Thank you.”

\--

Everybody eats out the back. It’s easy to breathe, and Héloïse has drunk lots of water. She is feeling better, if still a little trembly, and is enjoying herself. Marianne sits beside her. At a certain point, they joined their hands together on the table, and Héloïse doesn’t let go, not even when her heart rate goes up. She has changed into a different dress, less enchanted but more comfortable. She is comfortable, truly.

When it comes to speeches, there is plenty of laughter and tears. Héloïse watches Marianne’s face throughout all the stories she already knows, and sees her expression lighten. Héloïse watches the laughter tumble from her tongue.

Soon, it’s evening. The day has been spent with stories and laughter and tears. Suzie has been incredibly busy, torn away every five minutes for another photograph, or to chat with some distant relative. She finds Héloïse in the kitchen, grabbing a green apple from the fruit-bowl while Sophie refills a jug of water for the table.

“Héloïse!” Suzie calls, wandering in. She has changed into a more casual, evening dress, but still looks fairy-tale and magnificent. When she’s close, Héloïse notices that her expression is split with concern. “You had a panic attack?” she asks, quietly.

Héloïse turns to glare at Sophie. “You told her?”

Before Sophie can defend herself, Suzie scoffs: “I’m glad that she did!” and then, softer: “How are you feeling?”

Sophie excuses herself, leaving the sisters alone and trotting off with the jug of water. Héloïse sighs. She can’t really get around this. “I’m good,” she says, and adds on when she sees Suzie’s scrunched nose. “Really. I’m a good de-escalator.”

Suzie winces, taken back to that conversation from two days ago. “I’m still so sorry about that.”

Héloïse smiles. “I know. It’s fine, really. Marianne and Sophie were there, they take good care of me,” she lets out a little, exasperated laugh at the line between Suzie’s eyebrows, and her bitten lip. “I don’t want to bother you, it’s your wedding day.”

Suzie’s jaw drops as though she takes great offence to this. “Just because I’m married now doesn’t mean I’m not still your big sister!” she protests.

Some prickling comes into Héloïse’s eyes. She blinks it away and nods. “Okay.”

Suzie takes an awkward step forward. “Can I hug you, or are you still…?”

Héloïse shakes her head. “I’m good now,” and opens her arms. “Come here.”

So the sisters hold each other in the kitchen, and Héloïse breathes clean air.

\--

Apparently, in Gio’s family, weddings never end. The sky is starry and yet, inside, everybody is eating and dancing. Not quite as chaotic as the bachelor/bachelorette party. But Héloïse is still unnerved by it all. She isn’t drunk, too afraid that she will be set off again.

Marianne finds her by swelling crowd of dancers. They are playing slow songs now. Love songs.

“Do you…” Marianne begins, but can’t seem to finish the sentence. She makes a vague hand gesture towards the music.

Héloïse smiles, but exhales through her nose. “A crowd doesn’t seem like a good idea for me at the moment.”

Marianne meets her eyes and holds the gaze. She squints, just barely. And holds out her hand. “I have an idea.”

Héloïse, of course, takes the hand. She is led through the house, sliding through the gaps. Tethered. Marianne cracks open the door and the pair of them slip out into the cool night air. Héloïse’s shoes crunch on the gravel. They can still hear the music, faded and muffled but sweet-sounding as ever.

“Come here,” says Marianne. And Héloïse does, entranced.

They hold each other and sway. Neither is entirely sure of the etiquette, and there is some floundering. Some stumbles and giggling. But soon they are dancing comfortably, clutching to each other. Héloïse thinks that if she lets go, she will float away.

“Are you sure you’re okay now?” asks Marianne, after a few minutes of this. Héloïse looks up and sees that their faces are very close together. Marianne’s eyebrows are drawn. “We can just go upstairs, if you want,” she suggests, wispy-toned.

Something sparks in Héloïse’s chest. She smiles. Can’t help it. “We,” she repeats.

Marianne blinks. The corners of her mouth curl. She doesn’t correct herself or apologise.

“I’m okay,” Héloïse tells her, “I feel a lot better now, I promise. I’m a veteran.”

Marianne smiles again. They move to the left, stepping in time.

“When are you going to share your trauma with me?” asks Héloïse, and watches Marianne’s smile grow. “I feel like you’ve gotten a lot of mine, we should balance the load.”

Marianne raises her eyebrows at Héloïse, who is patiently waiting. Inside, the music swells, and Marianne hums. “I think some new trauma has been created for me on this trip, so,” she shrugs, and Héloïse laughs. “That seems equal.”

She’s dodging the question. And Héloïse doesn’t mind. She’ll hear it someday.

If they’ll have days together after tomorrow.

Tomorrow. It came so quickly. It’s as though Marianne feels the same, because she tightens her grip on Héloïse’s waist. And pulls her closer.

Héloïse shuts her eyes. The muffled music fills her ears and mouth and lungs.


	11. forever altering

When Héloïse wakes, her arms are empty. First she is drowsy, confused, searching for the night before. And then she sits up, taking in the empty room. No Marianne.

Héloïse is about to swing herself out of bed, no matter how groggy, when the door handle bends. In walks Marianne. Gorgeous face, slightly more awake than Héloïse. Big jumper, pineapple shorts.

Pineapple shorts. “Pineapples?”

Marianne blinks. “What?”

Héloïse is still half asleep. “Why pineapples,” she sort of forgets to phrase it like a question. After a moment, she gestures to make it more clear.

Marianne looks down. Hair falls in front of her face, and when she looks up again, blows at the strands with two puffs of air, deeply concentrated. Héloïse wants to leap out of bed and push the hair away for her, but restrains herself. Marianne returns her focus to Héloïse. “I don’t know.”

“Do you like pineapples? Particularly?”

“No. I think they look better than they taste.”

Héloïse frowns. “I disagree.”

Marianne laughs. A harsh, toothy sound. It brings Héloïse back down. “Of course you do.”

Héloïse smiles too, but ducks her chin down, trying to hide it. She scrunches her nose, still fuzzy-headed from deep sleep. “Did we…?” Héloïse feels heat rise in her cheeks, and points hesitantly down at the bed. The space that would be between them if Marianne was lying beside her.

Marianne takes a moment to understand. Then smiles. That stretching, fluttery thing. She shakes her head. “No. We were exhausted, remember?”

Héloïse sort of does. The wedding was hectic: fun, mostly, but hectic. A flurry of dancing feet, flowers, panic. And love. Plenty of that. She leans back on her hands and tries not to look too disappointed.

Marianne notices, of course. Her smile and eyes have turned smoky. She drops her arms to her side and ambles towards the bed. “What time do we go?”

Go. Héloïse had forgotten about that. Her disappointment is clouded over by the look in Marianne’s eyes. “About half two. To catch the train.”

Marianne is standing over Héloïse now, eyes wandering over bare shoulders and arms. Further. She reaches down and picks at some lint on Héloïse’s t-shirt. Her eyes are half-moons, simmering. “Your maman, Suzie and Gio and the others are going out walking after breakfast.”

“Are they?”

“Yes. So, we’ll have some time.” She is still not looking Héloïse in the eye, and yet Marianne’s intent bleeds through her fingertips, through the t-shirt. Staining Héloïse’s already-buzzing skin. Héloïse stays completely still; even her breath is held.

Marianne meets her eyes then. She shrugs. “But first, we’re going swimming.” And breaks into a grin.

Héloïse frowns, and bites her lip. “Not fair.”

Marianne’s eyes catch on Héloïse’s mouth for a moment before she clears her throat and tears away, letting go of Héloïse’s t-shirt. “Come on,” she says, her tone of voice slightly high-pitched.

Héloïse tilts her head. “You liked that,” she says. Sits up, hands fisted in the duvet.

“No,” Marianne says loudly, as though trying to convince herself. She reaches down and grabs a bundle of things from her suitcase. “Swimming. Come on.”

Héloïse doesn’t argue.

\--

The sky yawns an impossible blue. Héloïse holds her breath and bends her knees. Jumps into the deep end with her eyes squeezed shut.

Feet first. A splash. Submergence and bubbles. Everything pauses while Héloïse is underneath, and she sees Marianne’s pale legs. Treading water. Héloïse comes up and blinks the water away. Chlorine on her tongue and up her nose. It’s not as cold as she thought, but Héloïse still makes a show of shivering and complaining so Marianne will swim over and rub her arms and cheeks.

They swim lazily, playfully. Splashing and dodging each other. Lie on their backs, kept afloat by barely moving hands and feet.

After some time, Héloïse and Marianne linger somewhere between the shallow and the deep end. They lean against the bar and kick their legs in the water.

“Can I ask you something?” Marianne breaks the comfortable quiet.

Héloïse doesn’t look at her, instead focusing on their legs, outstretched, blue and wavery under the water. “What?” she asks, suspicious.

“How is it that arguing doesn’t set off panic attacks for you?” Marianne asks, “I’m always shaky after arguments.”

Héloïse looks over at Marianne. Her hair is darker when wet, slick against her face. Shoulders poking out of the water. “Even after ours?” Héloïse asks.

“Yes. I usually walk off afterwards, don’t I?” Marianne hesitates, looking away with a shrug. “Unless we’re on a train, in which I…”

“Sulk.”

“Shut up,” but she’s smiling. Marianne shuts her eyes, head tilted back. Soaking in the warmth. A moment passes where Héloïse is distracted by her marble neck, glistening with water. “You’re always very composed,” Marianne abruptly picks up the conversation again.

Héloïse twists her legs in the water. “Am I?”

Marianne’s eyes open, and she tilts her head forward again, lit by surprise. “Yes! What do you mean?”

Héloïse shakes her head, just a little, and looks at her toes. “I always feel like I’m about to explode. Even when I’m right, which is always,” she ignores Marianne’s sceptical snort. “But arguing doesn’t make me anxious, really. Just energised.”

Marianne waits before responding. “You’re good at it.”

Héloïse smiles, pleased. “I know.”

When she looks, Marianne’s lips are pursed. She’s trying not to laugh, and it sounds in her voice, taut and overly serious. “Return the compliment.”

Héloïse curls her legs, the water rippling. She pretends to mull over the order. “I think I won most of our arguments.”

Marianne shakes her head. Her eyes shine like the sun’s reflection on the water as she turns over, onto her front. Moves closer to Héloïse. “That’s not true. I’m winning this one.”

“Oh, are you? And how’s that?”

“Like this.”

Marianne reaches over and kisses her. Héloïse concedes, thinking that this is probably worth losing an argument over. When Marianne moves with a swish of water and pins Héloïse against the wall of the pool, mouth open and taking, she stops thinking altogether.

\--

They have sex. Not in the pool. Obviously. Héloïse isn’t insane.

Afterwards, they lie together, worn out and half-draped in cool white sheets. The others will be back soon, but for now, it’s just them in the big house, and Héloïse is trying not to worry about what will happen when they go back to their lives. So she fills the silence with questions.

“What is your favourite part of the human body?” Héloïse asks, her head on Marianne’s shoulder, pale hair mussed.

Marianne lies still and quiet for so long that Héloïse thinks for a confusing moment that she might be asleep. And then, she answers, clear and confident: “Hands.”

Héloïse raises her eyebrows. _“Vraiment?”_

Marianne doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she picks Héloïse’s hand from where it is lying across her stomach. She holds it up to the light, as though inspecting a beautiful artefact. She runs a thumb along Héloïse’s ring finger.

“You can tell a lot about a person by their hands,” Marianne says, “That’s why psychics do their readings that way, I’ll bet. Paint or ink stains. Jewellery. Fingers turned green from cheap rings,” She strokes her fingers along the creases in Héloïse’s palm. It tickles a little. “Rough, wrinkled or smooth. Old or young,” tapping along Héloïse’s knuckles, “pale or dark. Fake or painted nails…” A smile appears in Marianne’s voice when she adds: “long or short nails.”

Héloïse laughs. She wriggles her fingers, and Marianne, amused, adds: “Bitten,” with a sort of warning. Héloïse rolls her eyes. She hasn’t bitten her nails in a little while, she realises. Maybe it’s a habit she’ll try to break, going forward.

Marianne pulls Héloïse’s hand down, closer to her face. She traces her fingers over the veins. The softest and hardest parts. All the tiny streams streaking along her palm. Heartlines. Marianne sighs silently, but Héloïse’s hand is hovering so close to her face that she feels the warm exhale. Revels in it.

All is quiet and pensive until Héloïse thinks of another question. “What’s your favourite part on _my_ body?” she specifies.

Marianne turns her head, lips pursed and eyes half-lidded. Héloïse’s face cracks into a smile. She widens her eyes in expectation, which pulls Marianne into the laughter, her cheeks reddened. “Come on,” Héloïse demands, even as Marianne looks away, back to studying Héloïse’s palm. “My hands, or? Fingers -?”

Marianne shakes her head in a flushed, giggly way. A moment passes. Héloïse watches her think.

“I can’t choose,” she says eventually, ignoring Héloïse’s pout. “I like it all.

She likes it all. A pause. A smile from Marianne, who turns her head to face Héloïse. “And anyway, I don’t know your body well enough yet to pick a favourite.”

Yet.

\--

It’s nearly time to go. After they get dressed, Héloïse builds the courage to ask: “Do we need to go back to normal?”

Marianne looks up from where she crouches, on the floor, zipping up her bag. She blinks at Héloïse once and then turns away, finishes zipping her bag up. Stands. “Sort of,” she says, and Héloïse’s stomach takes a dive. But Marianne must see this, because she elaborates. “As in, we have to go back to work. No more beautiful Milan or wedding buzz.”

Oh. “That’s not what I mean,” says Héloïse.

Marianne smiles, just a little. “I know.” Fondness soaking her tongue like sherbet. She inhales and puts her palms flat on her jeans. “We can’t be in a bubble anymore,” she begins, “We have separate lives. Obviously. We’ll probably still argue a lot.” Marianne moves her hands from thighs to hips. “But I don’t want to go back to despising you with every bone in my body.”

Héloïse blinks, soft. There’s a family of sparrows building a nest in her ribs. They flutter and chirp. Their song fills Héloïse’s chest. She is smiling. She didn’t realise just how nervous she was about this.

Marianne softens too, head tilting softly when she sees Héloïse’s expression. After a moment, she turns and sits gingerly beside Héloïse on the mattress. She knocks her knee into Héloïse’s, and their legs stay touching.

“Did you ever hate me?” asks Héloïse. She looks up to gather expression.

Marianne takes a moment, looking at Héloïse’s hands, which are bundled in her lap. “No,” she answers eventually, with confidence. She looks up, meeting Héloïse’s eyes. Squinting playfully. “I think I secretly enjoyed arguing with you.”

Héloïse beams. “Knew it.”

“Shut up,” Marianne mumbles, smiling. “Did you hate me?”

Héloïse thinks to make a joke. She searches, but only finds honesty – a truth which she hasn’t admitted at all, not even to herself. “I actually… found you very attractive,” Marianne bursts out with a laugh, as though the very notion is ridiculous, “for many reasons when we met the first time. But that freaked me out so I was very rude,” Héloïse nods to herself, “and then it seemed that you hated me, so I hated you.”

Marianne stops giggling and feigns deep thought, forehead scrunched. “So what you’re saying is that we’re both… stupid.”

Héloïse must concede. “Correct.”

Marianne exhales, long and whistly, a smile on her face.

“At least we have now,” she says.

\--

Héloïse rushes along the top floor, trying to remember where she left her spare phone charger. In their room, everything is packed. She left Marianne there, sitting on the bed, elbows on her knees. A little smile.

Héloïse is quite distracted by this image so that when she barges into a room and sees her mother looking out the window, Héloïse jumps. Only internally, though. On the outside she is still and quiet enough that she could, if she wanted, turn quietly and go back out the door.

But she should probably say goodbye. And find that charger. “Maman?”

She turns, alerted, delicately holding her own hand. “Oh, hello,” forever formal.

“Hi. Is there a charger in here, by any chance? I lent it to Etienne and he said it was up here somewhere…”

“Other side of the bed,” says maman, nodding in the direction.

Héloïse rounds the bed and sees a white iPhone charger plugged into a socket. She pulls it out, and hears from behind her: “Are you leaving?”

Héloïse half-turns, glancing up for a minute before turning back to the charger. It’s an old one, and some of the wires are peeking out near the top. “Soon. Desperate to get rid of me?”

“Oh, since the day you were born.”

Héloïse hums. She glances up to see her maman’s expectant expression. Then she widens her eyes. “That was a joke,” maman rushes.

“I know,” Héloïse turns properly, throwing a nod of affirmation to her mother as she passes by. “It was funny.”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“I don’t laugh easily. I got that from you, remember?”

She’s moving to the door now, trying to think of a way to say goodbye, see you later, that is not entirely sappy or that is, preferably, completely emotionless. Before she can conjure something, Héloïse hears: “Marianne makes you laugh.”

Héloïse stops. Is greeted by flashes – Marianne’s wriggling eyebrows, her comments, rolling eyes. Today and yesterday. Even before then. Though Héloïse probably wouldn’t have admitted that to herself or to anyone.

But it’s not like that anymore.

Now. Marianne had said _“now,”_ and _“yet,”_ and said those words in such a tone that would imply – no, fuck it. In a tone that means. She meant it when she said that, and means it still. And perhaps she will mean those things for some time more. For a long time more. Wouldn’t that be something?

So, Héloïse feels no guilt or dishonesty when she smiles and says: “She does,” hesitates, and adds: “I like her.”

Maman makes a humming noise, amused. “Yes, I know.”

Héloïse smiles. Wide and uncharacteristic. Maman’s surprise shines through, unrestrained. But then transforms into something else entirely.

“I’m really glad,” maman begins, slowly, her eye contact hovering. She pauses and presses her lips together. There’s a slight wobble in her voice when she continues: “That she makes you so happy.”

Héloïse has not successfully employed the straightforward goodbye that she intended. But decides, despite her vague discomfort, that this is not all that bad. Her discomfort is overpowered, anyway. By a sort of welling in her throat. Héloïse manages to wrangle it, and control her tone of voice when she says: “I am too.”

Maman has to take a moment to gather herself, turning to look out the window again. But Héloïse has no doubt that she will turn around. And she does, her eyes a little shiny. “Safe travels,” she says.

Héloïse gives a little salute. “I’ll see you soon,” she says. It’s only when she’s walking down the hallway that she realises she meant that. She really did.

\--

Héloïse says goodbye to everyone else in the house, that being all the family that remains, both hers and Gio’s. Marianne is told, several times, that she is very welcome back. Héloïse is starting to think that Marianne might be more welcome back than she is. She mentions this to Marianne, who vehemently denies it, but smiles as though she is secretly pleased.

They say goodbye to the bridesmaids and to Gio. Suzie stands by the car. For a newly-wed bride, she appears nervous. Picking at her lips. When she sees Héloïse and Marianne, Suzie drops her hand and strides towards them. “Sophie’s over there,” she nods around the corner of the house.

“Is she okay?” Marianne asks. She knows, Héloïse realises by her tone of voice.

Suzie shakes her head a little. “She seemed quiet. She came out, excused herself, and said she’d be back in a minute. Hugo will be down soon. Would you…?”

Héloïse nods, already moving towards the side of the house. Marianne follows her, and they crunch across the gravel, close together.

Sophie is stood outside the shed, facing away. She hears the approaching footsteps and turns, eyes big and steady. The corners of her mouth are downturned. Héloïse and Marianne approach and stand together, waiting.

After a moment, Sophie opens her mouth. “I don’t want to get in the car with him,” she says, quiet but firm. Something lurks underneath her voice. Trembling, fresh. “Or the train.”

Héloïse feels a jolt of worry, apprehension. She steps closer, lowers her voice. “Sophie, are you worried he’ll do something, or be…?”

“No,” Sophie is quick to deny this, swallowing and shaking her head. She’s not looking at Héloïse or Marianne properly, fixated on the gravel. “He’s good. Really, he’s so good,” she breathes. “Which is why I can’t. I just can’t.”

She’s shivering, fidgeting. Héloïse and Marianne glance at each other.

“You can.”

“No, I-“

“Listen,” Héloïse is firm. Only because she recognises this tone of voice, this urgency. All the times she refused to go to school, to family gatherings as a teenager. What she always thought was a gut feeling was in fact somewhere higher, blossoming flowers in her chest, with thorns that scrape and scratch, and squirming, dark rose-heads, whispering in high voices to turn around or stay home or breathe more, or less.

Héloïse knows that these entangling, all-consuming flowers, are in fact weeds. And she knows that rush and certainty is not always right. So she compromises.

“We have to go home, you know that,” she says, “but you can sit in the back with Marianne and I, and Hugo can sit in the front. On the train you can sit beside me and Marianne can go beside Hugo.”

Marianne nods.

It’s not a lot. But Sophie stares at the gravel. Inhales, and nods. She takes a moment to regulate her breathing and collect herself. They walk out together, and Suzie is waiting there with Hugo. Who goes in the front and is polite, but who does not look at Sophie. Héloïse knows, somewhat pained, that after today Hugo will not come to another family gathering. Maybe Héloïse won’t ever see him again.

There’s some chat on the drive up to the station, but Sophie is quiet all the way. She is by the window, as is Héloïse. Marianne is wedged between them.

Without fanfare, not meant to be noticed by anyone (though Héloïse sees), Marianne puts her hand over Sophie’s. Sophie doesn’t look at her, but swallows and sucks her teeth. She fixates her stare out the window. Her round eyes are glistening. Sophie doesn’t make a sound, but turns her hand over on the seat, and clasps Marianne’s in her own. They remain that way for the rest of the drive.

\--

They clamber out at the ugly car park. Suzie gets out too.

Héloïse misses the house already. “I wish we could stay longer.”

Suzie snorts, grinning. On her finger glints her wedding ring. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not!” Héloïse protests. When Suzie laughs again, she says: “Really.”

Suzie stops giggling and fixates Héloïse with an alarmed stare. “Really? I thought you hated weddings.”

“Well, I do,” Héloïse hesitates. Does she? “Sort of,” she thinks, fleetingly, of the bridesmaids and the vows and Marianne’s face in the crowd. “I don’t know. But I don’t hate you,” Suzie rolls her eyes as Héloïse babbles on, “And I don’t even hate marriage, really. Just the ceremony and the drama.”

Suzie pushes a curl away from her eyes. “There wasn’t that much drama.”

From behind Héloïse, Marianne laughs.

They say goodbye. Promise to see each other soon. Suzie kisses her fingertips and presses them to Héloïse’s cheeks. “Like you used to do!” teases Suzie. As much as Héloïse fusses and rolls her eyes, she returns the gesture. For a moment, they could be little again. Ten years old and growing, whether they knew it or not. Whether they wanted it or not.

Héloïse thinks she probably does want it. As much as growing means losing things and people, it also means gaining them. She thinks of this as Suzie drives away, and Héloïse waves, knowing this is not goodbye. Rather, _“see you later.”_

\--

On the train, their unspoken agreement follows through. Hugo across from Héloïse, Marianne beside him. Sophie beside Héloïse. They’re all quiet and somewhat awkward but also exhausted. So the silence that falls is relatively comfortable.

Marianne breaks it after a little while. “Do you have Euripides with you?”

Héloïse, for a moment, stares blankly. And then lights. “I _do!”_ Delighted, she roots through the bag at her feet, and produces the book with a flourish and a wide smile. “Widening your horizons?”

Marianne makes a low sound in her throat, and takes the book from Héloïse. “Doing you a favour, more like.”

“A favour? You said I convinced you.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You _did._ While we were –“

Marianne makes a strangled coughing noise, bending her head into the book. Her cheeks are pink.

Oh, right. Héloïse forgot that they are on a train, surrounded by people. In all honesty, she forgot that there was anybody else at all. Only Marianne.

She’s not done. “Come on,” Héloïse leans, diagonally towards Marianne. Tilts her head, taps fingers on the table between them. “You’re interested in Medea.”

“I am not,” Marianne is staring at the pages.

“You are. I convinced you with my compelling argument, charm, and beauty.”

“Shut up,” Marianne is smothering a laugh. But it bursts from her when she meets Héloïse’s eyes, and shakes her head, glittering and grinning. Flushed.

“Oh my god,” Sophie interjects. She looks between the pair, and lands on Héloïse, dumbfounded. “I knew it.”

“What?” Marianne and Hugo ask together, though Héloïse is already wincing.

Sophie leans back. Héloïse fears that she will be put-off, or upset. Too soon after her and Hugo, maybe. But if she feels that way she doesn’t show it. Instead, Sophie is smiling just a little, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re actually together now, aren’t you?”

Héloïse supposes they didn’t hide it very well. She makes eye contact with Marianne, who’s eyebrows are shot up, her head unbent from the book. Across from Héloïse, Hugo repeats: “What?”

Sophie flicks between Héloïse and Marianne. “They were faking their relationship,” and then, briefly, she looks at Hugo. “To get everyone off Héloïse’s back. Or at least that’s what Héloïse _said_ the reason was…”

“Shut up, Sophie.”

Hugo seems sort of dazed. “Oh,” is all he says. The Book Thief is open on his lap.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop arguing?” Sophie asks.

In unison, Héloïse and Marianne deny this. “No, definitely not. She has such bad taste,” and “Of course not. Didn’t you hear us, just there?”

Sophie sighs, forlorn. “Worth a shot.”

There is quiet. The train rumbles along, green rushing by out the dirt-flecked window. Hugo clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “You were very convincing.”

“Too convincing,” says Marianne. Héloïse looks over and sees that she is putting her hair into the unicorn horn. Héloïse simultaneously wants to ask what the true purpose of this mysterious hairstyle is and also wants to comment on how adorable she looks like that. But the words are stolen from her throat as Marianne murmurs: “I have been well and truly convinced.”

Héloïse could probably make a joke. Instead, she smiles. “Me too,” she says.

\--

Hours later, it’s growing dark out. They arrive. Héloïse stares out the window as commotion rushes all around. Sophie and Hugo are getting sorted. Something stirs in Héloïse, keeping her stuck to the seat.

Marianne sits diagonally from Héloïse. Euripides in her hands, a thumb running along the spine. “Ready?” she asks, drawing Héloïse’s attention.

They exchange a look that Héloïse hopes will become a commonality between them. A shared spark. Intensity and humour and honesty. What they’ve always had, really. Only now it will be repurposed.

Héloïse thinks again, of growing and losing and gaining.

She smiles.

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote another fanfiction. When I have so many responsibilities, I mean I'm actually stupid. But this one was so much fun, and I'm quite proud of it. I mean, inevitably I'll be embarrassed by it, but for now, I'm mostly satisfied. And you've all been so kind in the comments. I hope you enjoyed this ending!  
> Oh, and this chapter title comes from a Virginia Woolf quote, from 'A Writer’s Diary', 1954  
> “I don’t believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.” 
> 
> Le grá,  
> Appleface.  
> xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else eat full punnets of grapes when they're anxious? No, just me? Okay.  
> Hope you enjoy this one. I doubt I'll be consistent with the uploads but we'll see.


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